


The crownless (again shall be king).

by napoleonborntoparty



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childbirth, Dany loves Her Boys, Dragons are Good Boys, F/M, Fix-It, Ghost is the Best Boy, Incest, Jon is a Sad Boy, Marriage, Miscarriage, Post-Season/Series 07, R Plus L Equals J, Season/Series 08, The War for the Dawn, Winterfell is full of gossips, character death? i dont know her, did you hear jon has seen the night king?, feat. my sad attempts at symbolism, targlings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 09:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18443468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/napoleonborntoparty/pseuds/napoleonborntoparty
Summary: He didn't blame Lyanna. He blamed Rhaegar ― a man grown, wed with children, who had valued prophecies over honour.The Three-Eyed Raven reveals the secret of Jon's parentage. Daenerys looks to a future of reigning in springtime. Jon just wishes everyone would focus a little more on the dead things coming to kill them all.(Or, a Season 8 AU. Five times during the Great War Jon struggled with being a Targaryen, and one time when the fighting was done that he came to accept it.)





	1. The Old Gods

**Author's Note:**

> *has idea for a jonerys fic 2 weeks before season 8 airs*  
> *frantically tries to get this out before the first episode*  
> *stressed spongebob meme* 
> 
> classic 5+1 with copious amounts of fix-it. GoT levels of drama and breakneck timelines. mostly a jon/dany angsty love fest - with a happy ending, in case you ain't bout that life! this is my first (perhaps only, thanks D&D) GoT fic so pls be gentle! i watched LOTR extended edition whilst i wrote this, hence the title...

Jon could hear the soft _whump-whump_ of boots in the snow behind him, but he could not make himself look and see whoever had tracked him to the Godswood. 

Would it be Ser Davos, with sage counsel that Jon had neither the mind nor ear to heed right now? Would it be Tyrion Lannister, with silver-tongued quips about bastards and armour and remembering who you were? Would it be Lord Royce or Lord Glover, to spit at his feet? 

Would it be Daenerys?

That last one opened up a pit of dread inside him, and it was accompanied by a deep sea of anguish that threatened to drown him. 

“That was a dramatic exit.”

“What happened after I left?” Jon’s voice sounded scraped out, like he hadn’t used it in years. He forced himself to turn and acknowledge his new companion. 

“Oh, it was like a mummers’ play.” Sansa rolled her eyes. She gathered her cloak around her and sat at the heart tree just where Ned had used to sit. She patted the spot next to her, so Jon joined her. “As if Bran announcing it to the whole room wasn't bad enough. You stormed off and when Sam tried to follow you, he tripped on Bran’s wheelchair and knocked down Ser Davos and three of the Karstarks. Tyrion was trying to reason with a whole room that hates Lannisters, and Arya nearly stabbed two people. Now it’s all shouting and hot air. You know what the Northern lords are like.”

“The Northern lords could march their people home tonight over this. That isn’t hot air.” 

“But they won’t. They swore to fight for you.” 

“They swore to fight for a  _ Northern _ ruler. For House Stark. They named me King in the North and they could unname me just as easily.”

“You’re a trueborn Targaryen, Jon,” Sansa said, and hearing those words again made Jon feel as though he was breaking apart at the seams, made him feel sick, made his eyes and throat burn. “That’s not a name anyone can take from you.”

“You were angry when I bent the knee.”

“I was. Bit of a moot point now.” 

“Aye.” Jon sighed, feeling like all the breath he'd ever breathed was gusting out of him. Like he'd been reborn again, and it was every bit as unpleasant as the last time. “You know the worst part?” 

Sansa shook her head.

“As soon as Bran said it, I knew it was true. All those years, those questions, the little bits of my life that never made sense… all just fell into place. Can't change it. Can't go back. Not sure how to go forward.” Jon sniffed bitterly. “It’s all worked out alright for you, though, hasn’t it?” 

Sansa had been looking at him with sympathetic eyes but now she went sharp and rigid. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

“We just said it. I’ve no right to the North. You’re the eldest child of Eddard Stark, which makes you the rightful heir to Winterfell and Wardeness of the North. Like you wanted.”

Jon noticed her fingers clench in her skirts and her nostrils flared. “How can you think I’d even be considering that right now?” Sansa’s voice was cold with anger. “We just found out everything we thought we knew about our family for the past twenty years is false, and you think the first thing I’d do is take the North from under your nose? Do I look like Littlefinger in a dress to you? I learnt a lot from Cersei Lannister but I’m not  _ actually _ her.”

She looked deeply offended. Jon felt immensely guilty, and his misery welled up anew. He wanted to apologise, but suddenly, to his embarrassment, hot tears started running down his face. He sobbed once, and had to cover his mouth with his hand to stem another that was rising in his chest. 

Sansa softened immediately, looking shocked. “I don't think I've ever seen you cry before.” 

Jon let out a wet noise that was not quite a laugh. “Well, I'm not actually a heart tree.” 

Sansa made a similar noise. “Gods, that's what I used to call you when we were young, because you were so solemn all the time. A face like a heart tree.” She looked down at her knees. “I'd forgotten that. All those horrible things I said about you.” 

“You were a child.”

“Well, so were you.”

“I remember when you were born, you know. Sort of.” Jon breathed in a heavy breath, blinking hard. “They rang the bells all day and Robb and I ran through the castle shouting ‘We’ve got a sister!’ at anyone we saw. I remember Maester Luwin brought us to your nursery. Your mother put you in Robb’s arms. And I think I said something like, ‘Lady Stark, can I hold her next?’ And she looked at me…like I was the vilest thing she’d ever seen… and she said, ‘You cannot ever hold her. She is Robb’s sister, not yours.’ I cried for hours. I was only four. I never told F―” Jon paused for a moment, then pushed on through the catch in his throat. “I never told Father. Hated it when he and Catelyn argued about me.” 

Sansa’s eyes were shining with tears now too. “We were wrong for how we treated you,” she murmured.

Jon felt another tear slide down his cheek into his beard. He rubbed it away hastily. “Turns out we were all wrong about a lot of things, weren’t we?” 

“Jon.” Sansa reached forward and took his hand in hers. It felt nice. He needed to hold onto something solid. “Father  _ saved  _ you. Yes, he lied, but he did it to protect you because he  _ loved  _ you. He loved you best of all of us.” Her fingers tightened over his. “What did you have yesterday that you’ve lost today? You  _ gained _ family.  _ And  _ a legitimate claim, if you want to talk about that. The greatest claim in all of Westeros.”

_ What did I lose? Two fathers and a mother, all over again, and none of them were ever what I thought they were.  _

And as for  _ a legitimate claim _ ― “I don’t want it,” Jon said firmly, past caring if he sounded petulant. “Not one single part of it.”

“None of it?” Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Not even Queen Daenerys?”

“Don’t,” He said immediately, the chasm in his stomach yawning wide. “Don’t do that. She’s my― we’re―” 

He tried to pull his hand away but Sansa would not let him go.  She shook her head, her auburn hair swaying like two glossy curtains. “We don’t choose who we love. Or if we ever get to love, at all.” 

Everything that had happened to Sansa, both here and far away, seemed to weigh heavily between them for a moment. He tried to smile, hoping she would smile too, but all it did was make his face ache. “Daenerys probably wants to burn me alive now I’m a threat to everything she’s worked for.” 

“You didn’t see her face since you were too busy running out the hall. I don’t think you’ll be getting burned alive any time soon.” 

Jon wanted to ask what face she’d made, how she’d reacted, why she wasn’t the one who’d come after him. But he just ducked his head and stared at the ground, too craven for the answers.

“Petyr told me how they met. Lyanna and Rhaegar. Would you like to know?” 

Jon's head snapped up. He didn’t respond but she continued anyway. 

“It was at Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhal. It was the year of the false spring, did you ever read about it? Mother made me read things like that. When Rhaegar won the joust, he crowned Lyanna his queen of love and beauty.” Jon felt as though his heart was swelling up big enough to suffocate him. Sansa's voice was as quiet and gentle as summer snow, and her hand felt like the rope that had once stopped him from plunging to his death when he climbed the Wall. 

“When Loras Tyrell handed me a single red rose at the Hand’s tourney in King’s Landing, I was twelve and I’d have married him right there in the list field if he'd asked me. I was meant for Joffrey but he didn’t even exist when Loras smiled at me.” Sansa smiled sadly. Jon had thought all these years of sorrow and suffering had made Sansa harsh and cold, but now he realised perhaps she had just become older and wiser. “Lyanna was only sixteen, Jon. Robert Baratheon already had at least one bastard in the Vale, and everyone south of the Neck talked about Rhaegar like he was something out of a song. Don't you remember how it felt when someone beautiful paid attention to you when you were sixteen?”

He was about to say that no girls paid attention to a bastard boy over Robb, or even Theon Greyjoy, when he remembered _. A whore named Ros,  _ he'd told Sam. She'd stood there, naked, with a soft Northern burr and hair kissed by fire, and she'd called him  _ m'lord _ as she’d unlaced his tunic.  _ I'm no lord, love _ , he'd said when he stopped her, _ just a Snow. _ Ros had kissed him with oddly intimate affection but did not attempt to persuade him further. Jon had walked to the door, pausing before he left.

_ Ros, have you worked here your whole life _ ? 

_ Aye _ , Ros had said as she slipped her dress back on.  _ Mum's the brothel mistress. _

_ Did she ever know a woman called Wylla?   _

Ros had seemed to know what he was really asking.  _ No Wyllas here, Jon Snow _ , she'd said. He'd dropped a few coins into her hand and she'd frowned.  _ But  _ ―

_ Have it anyway _ , he'd murmured, then fled. 

“Can you blame her for wanting to run away?”

Sansa was wrong in that, at least. Jon didn't blame Lyanna. He blamed Rhaegar ― a man grown, wed with children, who had valued prophecies over honour. 

_ Love is the death of duty, _ a wizened old voice rang in Jon's head.  _ If the day should ever come when your lord father was forced to choose between honour on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do? _

Jon's great-great uncle, and he had never known.  _ He'd do whatever was right _ , he had told Aemon. 

“What do  _ you _ want, Jon?” 

_ Most of us are not so strong.  _

“I want to destroy the Night King and the army of the dead.” 

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Sansa looked incredibly sad to hear him say it. But she respected whatever lie she obviously believed he was telling her and himself. She dropped his hand and got to her feet, smoothing out her skirts and adjusting her cloak. 

Sansa looked down at him still sat, looked him right in the eye and said with severity, “You and Daenerys will defeat the enemy to the North. Then you will march South to kill the people who murdered our family. And when you take the Iron Throne, House Stark will bend the knee and swear fealty to  _ you _ , now and always.”

All Jon could think to say to that was, “The lords won’t like that.”

Sansa’s lip curled. “They will like it if I tell them to, or I will hang them as oathbreakers and traitors. You’re our king. And my  _ brother _ .”

This time, Jon had nothing to say. Sansa stepped closer to him and surprised him by bending to kiss him on the forehead. Her hair tickled his face. She moved back a pace. “Don’t be angry with Bran. He’s so different now, he can’t help it. If you do spend time with him though, take him some food. He doesn’t listen to me anymore, and he never eats with us.”  She reached out to finger the direwolf sigil stamped on the clasp of Jon's cloak. “I suppose I'll have to make you a new one.” 

“No. Thank you. But I like this one.” 

Sansa nodded. Without another word, she drew her fur-lined hood over her head, turned and started the walk back to the warmth of the castle, and the uproar of the lords she had left there. 

Jon sat by the weirwood tree a while longer. 

He wondered if the old gods would listen to a lost king of nowhere who had prayed to them his whole life. But he could not think of a single thing to ask them for that they had not already given him, and taken away. 


	2. Stone and Snow

“I’ve spoken to Her Grace since,” Jon told Arya, when she mildly suggested to him that he should  _ go to her _ . 

They were sat together in the yard, cleaning their Valyrian steel after a day of training.  _ Since _ . That was how he referred to that great and terrible secret Bran had revealed. He was able to speak about it, he just preferred not to. He felt as if there were two Jon Snows: the Jon Snow of  _ before _ , who was Ned Stark’s son, the Bastard of Winterfell, and the Jon Snow of  _ after _ , who was… well ― who was not Jon Snow at all. 

Arya rolled her eyes and elbowed him. “ _ Her Grace _ . You’re allowed to call her Daenerys. She’s your aunt.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Jon groused. As if he could forget. When he wasn't trapped in dreams of the Night King wrapping those white hands around his throat, Jon spent his nights staring at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the turmoil that blew hot as dragon fire through his insides. His  _ aunt _ . The woman he had fallen quite hopelessly in love with ― his long-lost aunt. Not even lucky enough to be through a marriage that could be undone with some hand waving. By  _ blood _ . And with the way Targaryens had mixed the blood of siblings for centuries, he and Dany must, in truth, be closer relatives than most aunts and nephews. 

Was he any better than Jaime Lannister?

He tried to imagine wanting Sansa, who had grown taller than him, and wilful, and undeniably beautiful, the way he wanted Dany. The way he longed for her, for his own flesh and blood, how his yearning could not be quelled, no matter if he lay alone in his bed or if she was sat just across the war room from him. 

He’d ended up hunched over his privy, losing his supper. No, he was not Ramsay Bolton and he was not Jaime Lannister ― so why did he feel like more of a villain than either of them? Jon had told himself the tears running down his face were from retching, and nothing more. He wept more nowadays than he had in years. 

Arya elbowed him again, hard. “Ow,” he said. 

“No one thinks it's a bad thing, Jon. No one except you. Why do you think everyone is still calling you King in the North even though you bent the knee?” She shrugged. “Daenerys certainly doesn't think it's a bad thing.”

_ Wonderful _ , he thought to himself, bitter sharp as Longclaw’s edge.  _ Everyone can cheer my name and call me king and I can become the next in a line of family-fuckers.  _

“Anyway,” Arya said, airily, sheathing Dark Sister, as she had called her dagger. Dany had liked that. “I wasn’t talking about the Queen. Who, by the way, is a bit upset with you. You  _ should _ talk to her.” She kicked Jon’s foot. 

He kicked her back, gentler than she. “I  _ have _ talked to her. And _ you _ have clearly been talking to her too.”

Arya nodded, drawing Needle out of its scabbard. 

“About what?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

Arya raised her sharp eyebrows, running a cloth up the length of Needle and back down. “You shouldn't fight it,” she said, as if that explained all. 

It was enough for Jon. His face suddenly felt very hot, even though the yard was as cold as the top of the Wall. “She talked about ― _ that _ ― with  _ you _ ?” 

“Not  _ that _ , seven hells!” She laughed and batted at him with Needle. “But the way you just blushed said more than a thousand conversations.” 

“What did I tell you about waving that thing around?”

Arya’s posture changed as little, straightened, and she looked over Needle’s blade almost lustily. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” Then she grinned at him, showing all her teeth. “And I have been. Trust me.” 

Jon was surprised by the laugh this drew out of him. She wasn’t little Arya Underfoot anymore, but he still loved her more than anything. He'd thought his heart might fail on the spot when he'd seen her in the courtyard, a woman grown, in boy's clothes with Needle strapped to her hip. When she'd thrown herself into his arms and he'd lifted her right off her feet, it was like the years had fallen away. It was the day they all parted from Winterfell again, when he'd clung to her and hoped the South wouldn't eat up his little sister in one bite. 

And a sister was what she still was. Not a cousin, but a sister. And a trained killer, something called a Faceless Man, if the mutterings of the lords were to be believed. Perhaps the South had taken a bite out of her after all, but it seemed she had learned that wolves bite back. 

Jon hadn’t taken her to task on the rumours he heard, or what exactly transpired in the Great Hall in his absence that resulted in Littlefinger lying dead in a pool of his own blood. When he’d asked for the whereabouts of Lord Baelish, his sisters had shared a secretive little smile ― a baffling thing to him, when he could only remember their squabbles as children. 

He’d tried to ask Sansa about what Arya had got up to in Braavos. All she had done was purse her lips and mutter _ , If you hear anything about a bag of faces, don’t ask.  _

That had only piqued his curiosity, and his horror. But he’d let it lie for now. Time enough, if they lived through the Long Night. 

“ _ Go  _ to her, Jon!” Arya suddenly insisted hotly. 

“I don’t know who you mean!” He replied, rising to her level of ire, tossing his sword cloth aside. 

Arya stared at him in open disbelief. “Your _mother_ , Jon. Lyanna. She’s been waiting for you our whole lives.” She nodded her head toward the crypt. “Go to her.” 

He twisted to look at the entrance, flanked by two stone wolves. Suddenly, he felt a strong pull toward it, toward that place of death and ancient stone kings, that place that haunted his boyhood nightmares. Jon rose to his feet, almost without realising. Arya was right. His mother had been in Winterfell the whole time, and she had waited down in the dark for long enough. 

 

He'd never truly looked at her statue before. Jon had not ventured into the crypt overmuch, and when he did, it was to light a candle for Ned. 

Now, he approached her, and lit a candle to place in her outstretched hand. 

_ What are you reaching for?  _ He wondered.  _ Is it the truth? No rape, no kidnap, not for the she-wolf of Winterfell.  _

There was a dusty bird feather lying at her feet. He recalled, when he was old enough to pay attention, that on Robert Baratheon's rare visits to Winterfell, he would always go first to the crypt to see Lyanna. Perhaps he left them for her. 

Jon kicked it away into the darkness. 

_ Or is it me? I'm here now. I'm right here. I know you.  _

He cleared his throat, which felt suspiciously tight. “Mother,” he croaked, testing out the word. It felt strange on his tongue. “It's me. It's Jon. Or… I suppose that wasn't the name you gave me. But it's mine all the same. I'm sorry I ―” 

Then he stopped.  _ Sorry.  _ What was he  _ sorry _ for? 

He frowned, shaking his head and feeling stupid. “You can't hear me. You're just a statue. You died in Dorne years ago. You left me, you–” 

He stopped again. What was he  _ doing _ ? Was he some child, to be angry with the dead for dying? Insulting the woman who had perished so he could draw his first breath? 

How he had longed for her when he was a boy. He had imagined her so often, and with such aching want, that he conjured up a face for her all of his own. His mother, who he had dreamed was kind and beautiful and highborn. 

It had been many years since he had thought on her, for there were no mothers for any man at Castle Black. But now, he gazed at the unmoving stone face and wished it would come to life.  She would smile at him and cup his face in her hands, her son who was older now than she had been when she died. She would sound Northern, like him, when she said _ Jon, my little love, my wolf pup.  _ She would kiss him and they would laugh together and the crypt would be filled with the sound of their joy. The Starks who returned from the dead. 

Except – maybe she would call him  _ Aegon _ ,  _ my little dragonling. _ Named for her secret husband's ancestor, who was buried down South in that stinking city Daenerys craved so badly. Her husband and all his kin, buried with gods Jon did not worship, under the Sept of Baelor, which he'd never seen and was nothing now but rubble and ash. 

Grief, powerful and utterly impotent, overtook him with such force he found himself on the ground. He knelt before his mother's statue and gasped for breath. 

The crypt was incredibly cold. His mother's face was not lively and smiling. It was sad, and made of stone, and the flame cast strange shadows upon it. 

He didn't know how long he stayed down there. It might have been hours. The candle dripped down Lyanna's hand, leaving a growing lump of wax on the floor as it burned lower and lower.

He couldn't be sure, but he thought Daenerys had found him at some point. Her feet had been quiet and respectful on the stone steps as she approached him. He thought maybe she had knelt down beside him, her face calm and sweet and sorrowful.  _ Jon, it's freezing down here _ , he thought she whispered, _ won't you come inside? Jon?  _ Arya had said she was upset with him for the way he took the news of who he was. Oh, he had not avoided her in a physical sense, but in his heart, he had become distant. But when she stroked his face with the soft leather of her gloved hand, it seemed she had forgiven him for pushing her away.

He thought she had called him  _ my heart _ or  _ sweetling _ , and he felt the brush of her mouth pressed against his cheek, before she disappeared like smoke through the crypt entrance. But perhaps she had not been there at all, merely another imagined thing, another ghost. 

Jon stood eventually, his legs screaming from kneeling for so long. He would have to ask for a bath to be drawn, or he’d be hobbling like an old man tomorrow. 

He wiped his eyes. “I'll visit again as soon as I can,” he told his mother. “I promise.” 

These days, the dead rose in their thousands. But there was no power on this earth that could wake Lyanna Stark from her tomb. 

 

When he finally emerged, snow was falling and already lay thick on the ground. Arya was at the mouth of the crypt. She was wearing a cloak with the hood drawn over her head, holding it tight to her body to keep out the chill. The cloak was blue like frost. In a strange show of affection, she wrapped her arm around his waist. He slung an arm around her shoulders. 

“How was she?”

“Stone,” Jon murmured. “She was stone.”

Arya squeezed him a little. “She gave you the only thing she could. Your life. Stone can’t do that.”

“All I ever wanted was to be a Stark.” The words were so quiet, Jon half-hoped the snow might blanket them, but Arya heard. 

“You  _ are _ . You’re a Stark as much as me, or Sansa, or Bran, or Lyanna, or Father. It doesn’t matter what you call yourself, or how far South you go, or what ugly chair you do or don’t sit on. When you’re dead and gone, if you want to sleep beside your mother and our father, we’ll put you to rest in the crypt. Because Winterfell will always be your home, Jon.” 

Jon’s eyes smarted again. He turned his face up to the sky, hoping Arya wouldn't see. The cold flakes melted on his face and probably made it look like he was crying again anyway. Wanting to change the subject, he looked down at Arya and said, “Sansa told me you had a bag of faces. What’s that about?”

Arya barked out a laugh and started pulling Jon along by the hand, back to the castle. “Ask me again another time. And I’ll ask you what exactly happened at Castle Black that released you from your vows.” 

Ghost suddenly bounded up to them from out the snow, standing almost as tall as Arya. She growled playfully at him, baring her teeth. He growled back, and nuzzled at Jon’s hand for fuss – and talk of families and faces was left for an evening. 


	3. Bride of Fire

Jon tramped out into the yard after breaking his fast, drawing his cloak around him against the bite of the chill air. It was first light, and the yard was already filling up. Those training today were eating in small groups. The forge was already running and the air shimmered with the heat. It was the only place outside the warmed castle walls where men wore no wool or leather, sweating through their underclothes. Many of the cooking fires were clustered near the forge― those who had to stay still most of the day, tending to the cauldrons of food for others, relished what warmth they could get.

Jon noticed Tormund bundled up in all his furs, drinking from his bowl of broth.

His old friend had stumbled through Winterfell's gates a day or so after Jon had returned with Daenerys and her forces. Exhausted and snow encrusted, without a horse or any food, dragging a barely-conscious Gendry along with him, Tormund had wasted no time in grabbing Jon by the fur of his cloak and yanking him close. His eyes were crazed as he had rasped out, “It's fallen, Snow. The Wall. They're coming.”

Jon had gone straight to confer with Bran, then it was he who had to tell Daenerys and the lords about Viserion's fate. That was the day Bran told them all what he knew of a secret marriage long ago, and a tower, as far south as south goes, called Joy. For a moment all the wars had fallen away, except for the war that had sprung up in Jon's heart. 

That was weeks ago. Now they were deep into the waiting game against the dead.

Tormund was stood with a few of Jon’s young soldiers, who were smiling and seemed to enjoy whatever joke Tormund was telling them. Seeing Northmen supping with one of the Free Folk, within the wards of Winterfell, made something tight and frozen inside Jon ease and melt a little.

He crossed the yard to them. At his approach, his men bowed, muttering their greetings before scattering to take up their swords. Tormund didn’t do any bowing. He unhitched his drinking horn from his belt and proffered it to Jon. Jon had no way of knowing it wasn’t that terrible fermented goat milk Mance had got him to drink once, so he shook his head.  

“No, thanks.”

Tormund shook at it him, and the thick slopping sound it made confirmed Jon’s fears of what was inside. Tormund clearly thought this was enticing. “Keeps you warm.”

“I'm warm enough.”

“Aye,” Tormund’s grin showed his teeth. “You've got dragon's blood, haven't you, Jon Targaryen?”

Jon winced. He didn’t think Tormund ever riled him intentionally, but once he started teasing Jon, he did seem to enjoy the aftermath of Jon scowling and feeling awkward. This was toeing the line between teasing, and the thing Jon was most sick of talking over. “It’s, uh…Aegon Targaryen. But don’t―don’t call me that.”

Tormund leaned into Jon and spoke in a low voice, like he’d figured out a secret. “He was that conqueror cunt, wasn’t he?”

“That's the one.”

“Fancy name. You got some title as long as my cock now?”

“Jon Snow suits me fine.”

Tormund was still grinning. “You always went on about how you were a proper Northern boy, but here you are, some soft Southron prince's whelp.”

This prickled Jon too. “My mother was a Stark of Winterfell.”

Tormund shook his shaggy head, rolling his eyes dramatically. “ _ So _ many names,  _ so _ many titles. Don't know how you all keep up.”

Jon sagged a bit. Tormund didn't mean any harm. If there was one person who didn't care where he came from, or where he was going to, only how he acted, it was Tormund. That made him a friend in a thousand.

“I don't know either,” Jon admitted. “Listen. I know you and your people don’t follow any king, Northern or Southern.”

Tormund nodded and didn’t reply for a few moments, sucking on his horn. He was silent for so long, Jon thought he wouldn’t reply, and their conversation had ended there. But then Tormund spoke. “We followed the King-Beyond-the-Wall, but now Mance is gone and the Wall is gone, but you're still here, so… if you see us through the end of the world, who knows? Maybe we'll follow you.”

Jon felt himself smiling, heartened by Tormund’s coarse brand of affection.

“Look at that! A smile! So rare.” Tormund jutted out his chin with a suggestive smirk. “Are you going to kiss me next?” Jon found himself sniggering and ducked his head, putting a hand on Tormund’s chest to keep him at a safe distance. “No?” Tormund stuck out his bottom lip. “Is it because I don't have any dragons? You only like silver hair now?”

Jon felt his smile fade, and Tormund snorted, unimpressed. “Boy, I spent enough time sleeping next to you and Ygritte to know what love looks like on your pouty cunt face.”

“I'm not a ―”

“You're the poutiest cunt I ever met. And I know how you look when you're in love. What's the problem? What’s she, your cousin? Aunt? Sister?”

“Aunt,” Jon forced out. “It's… complicated.”

“Aye, and I'm just a fucking savage who wouldn't understand, eh? Can’t say I go in for family shit myself, but let me tell you what I do understand. You lost one girl you loved because all you did was worry about what was right and what was wrong. You going to lose this one too? Over what? Her dead brother who was who? Your dead father?” Tormund prodded Jon hard in the chest. “Can't spend every second thinking about the dead.”

Jon was always taken aback by the ferocity of Tormund’s investment in his wellbeing, and could never quite find words to say in return, or ways to express his gratitude. So he did what he always did, and went with the truth. “The dead are all I think about.”

Tormund shrugged. “Life is for the living, Aegon Snow. Otherwise you might as well just let the Night King have your bones.”

“Now you're doing it on purpose. Just  _ Jon Snow _ .”

But Tormund wasn't listening anymore. He was watching Brienne of Tarth knock Jaime Lannister down into the dirt.

That had been another unexpected arrival in the night. Jon was almost impressed Jaime and his man Bronn hadn't been caught on the Kingsroad and taken to Riverrun to face Edmure's justice, right up until Jaime had announced Cersei had betrayed them and no forces would join them from the South.

Jaime had been clapped in irons and brought to the Great Hall. There, Bran had piped up, as was his wont apparently, to reveal it  _ was _ Jaime who had pushed Bran from the Broken Tower all those years ago. He'd said it so casually, as if he and Jaime were discussing the weather on a springtime day, that you could have heard a pin drop in the hall for nearly a full minute before the room had erupted into chaos.

For crimes against Houses Targaryen and Stark, Daenerys had sentenced Jaime to death by dragonfire. It was the only time since her arrival Jon had seen the Northern lords truly behind her. Even Sansa had not objected. It had been horribly uncomfortable to watch Tyrion beg for his brother's life. Jon had stood there with his hand on his wolf pommel, genuinely unsure how to proceed.  

“My Hand advises me against executing you,” Dany had said, her voice dripping with a horrible, cold sort of disdain. No Northerner held love for the Lannisters, but her loathing was staggering. Jon had no doubt Jaime had served the realm when he slayed the Mad King, but for Dany, he had ended all her possibilities, ensured her exile, stolen with a few slashes of his sword everything it had taken her twenty years to claw back.

“Speak in defence of your life,” She had commanded.

Jaime was a tall, willowy man, but when he had drawn his sword out the scabbard and gone down on his knees in front of her, Daenerys seemed to tower a hundred feet over him.

“My sister…” Jaime had begun, very quiet, then he'd cleared his throat and tried again. “She is lost to reason. I only knew one other who so wilfully ignored wise counsel and took such glee in wildfire.” The hall had been silent as a grave. Jaime's head was bowed but he had glanced up at Dany with his glittering green eyes. “Your father was a madman. I’m glad I killed him. I would kill him again if he stood before me now. I pledged to fight for the living. Is that what you fight for, Your Grace?”

She had given him a curt nod.

Jaime had laid his Valyrian steel blade at her feet. “Then my sword is yours.”

Jon had not been able to see Dany's face, but he had imagined it well enough.  _ She doesn't want your sword _ , he'd thought.  _ She wants you dead. _

“Kingslayer!” One of the gathered lords spat. “Murderer!” Hissed another, and another. “Oathbreaker! Death to Lannisters! Have his head, Your Grace!”

Tyrion had been stood with Jon at the high table, breathing hard like he'd just run a great distance. He had looked up at Jon.  _ Stop them _ , his wide, desperate eyes had seemed to plead.  _ Make them listen. Don't let her take my brother from me.  _ Jon hated the Lannisters, but he did not hate Tyrion. And Dany had lost her brothers, but she did not know the pain of losing one you truly loved, one with whom you shared your blood and your home and your childhood, who was your closest friend for the highest heights and the lowest lows.

_ What would Robb have done? _

_ Be smarter than Robb _ , Sansa had told him. And Sansa had been looking at Tyrion too, with a hint of pity on her face. They had been married, Jon had supposed, not in any proper sense, but surely at one point they were all each other had.

“Your Grace,” he'd said, and Dany had turned to him, and Jaime had watched him with his Lannister cat eyes. “If you will not have him, I shall. He wants to fight against the dead, so I welcome him until such a time as the dead are defeated. Arise, Ser Jaime. But keep this in mind. The North remembers.”

“The North remembers,” came the low echo around the room.

Jaime had got to his feet, and nodded to Jon. Tyrion had rounded the table, bowed deeply to Daenerys, and led his brother from the hall as swiftly as his short legs had been able to carry him.

A week on, Jaime kept mostly to himself. He had few friends in the North, but the ones he did have came in the oddest shapes and sizes. There was Tyrion of course, who liked Jaime best, and Bronn, who seemed to get on better with Tyrion than Jaime, and there was Podrick, who respected Brienne more than Jaime, and then there was Brienne herself.

Jon was aware that Brienne and Jaime were known to each other, as Sansa had explained the terms of how Catelyn had released Jaime from imprisonment― but it astounded him that the two of them seemed, at the very least, to be rather close friends. Close enough that when she knocked him on his ass, he was good-natured about it. Brienne helped him to his feet, but it sounded like they were bickering about Jaime being slow.

Tormund shook his head from side to side. “What is it with the best girls wanting to fuck pretty Southerners? You and the Dragon Queen,” He jabbed a finger at Jon, then Jaime. “Her and this golden-handed twat. No one left for old Tormund. Hey, big woman!” Two blonde heads turned toward them. Brienne frowned. Jaime scowled. “Let me have a go at you next!”

Brienne did not look happy, and Jaime even less so, but Brienne was not a woman to turn down a fight from a big man. She nodded, making Jaime back off, and rolled her shoulders in preparation.

Tormund beamed at Jon, wagging his eyebrows.

“She'll destroy you,” Jon said, finding himself smiling too. Tormund always ended up making Jon smile.

“Aye,” Tormund said with relish, “Fucking hope so.”

He swaggered over to Brienne. She was grumbling, “My name is  _ Brienne _ , not  _ big woman _ ,” which made Tormund chortle, even when she lunged for his head.

Jaime Lannister watched them for a moment, before he made his approach toward Jon. Jon may have spoken up for him but that did not mean he enjoyed anything about Jaime's company. He tried to look as disinterested in a conversation as possible. It did not work.  

“Your Grace,” Jaime greeted. It pissed Jon off monumentally that every word out his mouth sounded a bit like mockery, whether it was genuine or not.

“Ser Jaime.”

“You remember the last time we spoke in this yard?”

“Yes,” Jon said, nodding over to the forge. “You mocked me for joining the Night's Watch.”

Jaime did not even have the grace to look rueful. “Well, we're all eating our words as far as perils beyond the Wall are concerned now, aren't we? How satisfying for you.”

“Nothing about the Long Night is satisfying to me,” Jon snapped.

At this, Jaime tilted his head to one side. “You know, I've heard an interesting tale around this castle about you. A big secret your odd little brother discovered using those magic powers. Rhaegar's boy. That  _ must _ have been a shock.”

Jon shifted, now uncomfortable instead of annoyed. Would he ever hear the end of this?He suspected not. “Tyrion told you.”

Jaime scoffed. “Everyone from servants to high lords in this place is talking about it. But yes, Tyrion told me. He's one of a very few in this freezing hellhole who doesn't actively despise me.” He was looking at Brienne, who was hammering away at a very jolly-looking Tormund. He smiled at Jon with his sharp, perfect teeth. “So how does it feel to be the last hope of a dynasty?”

“Queen Daenerys is the last hope of a dynasty. And it's none of your business.”

“Why?” Jaime laughed. “Who better to talk to about it than me?”

Jon's guts went cold for a second. Could Jaime truly mean that? Was that why he came to speak to Jon, to give advice on how to sleep at night when you committed incest and broke every vow you ever swore?

...But that was not all that Jaime was, in truth.

Jon saw how Brienne cared for him, and she was as noble as any knight from the songs, and Jaime had ridden the thousand leagues between King's Landing and Winterfell to honour his pledge, even when his queen and his armies stayed South and left everyone to die.

Jon cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

“Your father. Who else could tell you about him but me?”

Jon frowned. “You knew Rhaegar?”

Jaime evidently thought all the cold weather had addled Jon's brains. “Of course I did, I was made Kingsguard by his lunatic father. Oh. Sorry for murdering your grandfather, by the way.”

“He burned my other grandfather alive, so…” Jon shrugged. “The past is already written. The ink is dry.” Jon hated the way Jaime looked him over when he said that. It was calculating, like he could see past Jon's boiled leather and wool and flesh, right into the heart of him. “ _ What?” _

“I see it now,” Jaime said in a voice that was quiet, almost contemplative. “You look like your mother, obviously, but… now I  _ know _ , there  _ is _ some of Rhaegar in you.”

“I was raised by Ned Stark,” Jon replied, hackles rising. “Everything I am is because of Ned Stark.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaime said, waving his golden hand like he was tired of hearing about the honourable Ned Stark, “but it's not an insult. Rhaegar was a good leader, like you. A good fighter, like you. Good-looking, like you.”

Jon raised his eyebrows, unimpressed by these compliments.

Jaime's eyes suddenly took on a distant quality, but then he shrugged, like he was trying to shake off ghosts of the past. “He was also rather boring, and miserable all the time. Just like you.”

“Brienne seemed to outmatch you by a clean mile just then, Ser Jaime. You sure you'll be able to fight the dead with one hand?”

Jaime was quick to recover his expression, but Jon could see he was surprised, and insulted. Jon didn't like petty jibes, and he wasn't good at getting in the last word, especially with someone witty like the Kingslayer. But for the man who had shoved his brother out a window, he could make the effort. Especially when he sorely wanted Jaime to shut up and leave him alone.

“I’ll manage,” Jaime said stiffly, but then he smirked. “I'm sure such an accomplished warrior as yourself could guide me if I have trouble. And if  _ you _ need anyone to soothe your soul about the Dragon Queen being your aunt, I’d be happy to speak with you about that, in return.”

_ He knows too,  _ Jon thought, his skin going hot and cold all over.  _ Tormund knows. Gods, does everyone know I shared her bed? Am I so obvious? _

Jaime seemed deeply amused by whatever distress he saw on Jon’s face. He clapped an overly-friendly hand to Jon’s shoulder. “Cheer up, Jon Snow. You’re a Targaryen.  It’s practically expected of you.” He spotted something over Jon's shoulder. “Ah, and here comes she.”

Jaime wandered away, and Jon cursed him for managing to get the last word in anyway.

He turned.

Sometimes, he wished he had never stepped off the boat at White Harbour, for it seemed like the last time the one uncomplicated thing in his life was untouched. Of course, there  _ were  _ complications in getting involved with the Dragon Queen, especially when he’d bent with knee after consulting exactly no one ― but Jon was so breathlessly, heedlessly, spectacularly in love, he hadn’t really cared. If they were all going to die, what was a little comfort, some tender words whispered in the night, a warm body beside his, in the grand scheme of it all?

Alas.

When he’d been brave enough to face her in the aftermath of Bran’s revelation, they had talked― at length actually. Alone, and with their advisors, and with the lords, and most of it had been remarkably civil. There was talk of succession, and birthright, and other things that seemed of such infinitesimal importance to Jon, that he had spent most of the time fighting the urge to upend the table and shout that none of it mattered if the Night King triumphed. He felt the weight of truth like a chain around his neck dragging him down, not just the truth of his parents, but the truth that marched down from the Wall.

And there was the other truth too, Gods help him ― that he still loved her.

They ate together often, alone, and sometimes she would hold his hand, or hook her ankle over his under the table. She had tried to teach him how to plait braids and speak Dothraki, which he had failed miserably at. He would sit with her of an evening and tell her of the North, showed her maps and shared stories. There had been no more bed hopping, but after the shock had died down in him, he could not make himself stay away from her. Maybe that was why the entire North seemed to know about his feelings, and hers too. She still loved him, he was sure of it. 

And here she was. Compared to the backdrop of grey stone and grey-garbed soldiers, Daenerys glowed like a shaft of moonlight on freshly fallen snow.

She was in front of him quicker than he realised, for he’d been too busy gawping at her. Up close, she actually looked a little peaky. Jon imagined it was just the climate, so unlike the balmy sea air of Dragonstone or the baking sun of Essos. The sight of her took the air from his lungs, like it always did. This was why she spoke first.

“Good morning.”

“Morning, Your Grace,” He replied, remembering how to get the words from his head to his mouth. This was perhaps not such a wise endeavour when he then came out with, “I like your hair today.” He _did_. It was not her intricate crown of braids, but something he recognised, like how Sansa wore her hair. It was a Northern style.

Dany smiled. “Thank you. I like yours too.”

His hair looked like shit  **―** and they both knew it.

“You were speaking with Jaime Lannister?”

Jon pulled a face. “Jaime Lannister was speaking, aye. I was just unlucky enough to be in earshot.”

Dany looked almost amused, but the tight set of her jaw told Jon she was still not happy about the necessity of keeping Jaime around, walking free, with his head still on his shoulders. But then her whole countenance warmed up. “I wondered if we might speak?”

_ We are speaking _ , he nearly said, but that was idiotic. He nodded. 

“Alone?”

That almost made him blush.  _ Get a grip, Snow _ , he scolded himself. “Let’s go to the Godswood,” he suggested. Daenerys took his arm, which hardly mattered despite the public setting, for everyone was far too occupied with their own business. And if everyone  _ was _ talking about him sleeping with his aunt the Queen, it wouldn’t exactly come as a surprise to anyone. 

He lead her through the woods until they reached the heart tree, which looked at Jon as mournfully as it ever did. “It’s called a weirwood,” he told her. “This is where the old gods live.”

“It’s beautiful,” Dany murmured. Jon looked at her, to see if she was in earnest, but there wasn’t a trace of mockery on her face. She looked awed. Jon gazed a moment longer. In her white fur coat lined with red, her silver tresses, the snow all around them and the weirwood with its shivering blood-red leaves looming over, he felt like this was something from a song. What was that one Sansa and her friends used to sing?  _ I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair…  _

There was noise in the trees and Ghost emerged, licking blood from his jaws. He padded over to them, stopping briefly to receive a pat from Jon before greeting his new favourite person. “Hello, handsome boy,” Dany crooned, much to Jon’s delight. “Did you have a good breakfast?” Ghost whined, sniffing her all over and pushing his large head against her stomach.

“He likes you better than me these days.”

Dany hummed a little laugh, scratching Ghost behind his ears. “Maybe he just likes that our hair matches.”

Jon sat down on the thick whorls of the weirwood’s roots. “Will you sit? You wanted to talk.”

Dany hesitated. “You said this is a godly place. I keep no gods. I wouldn’t want to show disrespect.”

He smiled and reached out to take her sleeve, drawing her down next to him. Ghost followed them, sitting down on his haunches and resting his head in Daenerys’ lap. “These gods don’t have as many rules as the rest. Don’t tell lies, that’s all. They know if you lie.”

She seemed to like that. “That must be why you’re such an honest man. This conversation requires honesty.”

“You haven’t been talking to Tyrion again, have you?”

Dany rolled her eyes. “He’s Hand of the Queen. He and I have to talk from time-to-time. But it wasn’t any of his ideas I want to discuss today. It’s one of mine.”

“Oh, aye?”

**“** I have a question for you to answer, in the sight of your gods, if you like.” 

“I still don't want the Iron Throne.”

That made Dany frown a little, but she waved his answer away with her hand, before taking one of his in both her own. “Not that.”

“Then what?”

And so it was that under a weirwood― not so different from the tree under which Jon Snow had once vowed to take no wife, father no children, and wear no crowns―  he received a marriage proposal from a queen.

He could see she was trying to maintain that cool, porcelain facade. A lady so high above the rest, soaring on dragon wings, that not a thing could touch her, or hurt her, or deny her demands. But she clung to his hand all the same.

“What do you say, Aegon?” Daenerys asked, her breath like fog, her eyes like amethysts.

_ Aegon _ . A conqueror's name. A king’s name. A name given to Rhaegar’s first son, Jon’s half-brother, from his first wife, then passed down to him like a second-hand pair of boots. Was there a reason―  some link to Rhaegar’s hope for a promised prince? Or had poor, dying Lyanna simply not been able to think of another Targaryen name for her Targaryen son, when her Targaryen husband had already left the world?

_ She’s worried I’ll refuse _ . Worried, this woman whom fire could not touch, who freed slaves and sacked cities and brought men across the world to heel. This woman who was his  _ family _ .

That was why he let her call him Aegon, sometimes. She was the only person he allowed. He hated the name. It meant nothing to him. Dany only called him it in moments of grave sincerity. Because to  _ her _ , it meant family, the only two left of her kind, just like her dragons. She did not take such matters lightly.

_ There is some of Rhaegar in you,  _ Jaime had said,  _ he was miserable all the time, like you. _

But maybe ― just maybe ― he had been happy when he wed Lyanna? Surely you did not forsake everything just to be unhappy when a woman loved you, even when you weren’t supposed to love her? Surely there was happiness then, just a moment of it, before death came to claim them?

Ghost whined again from his spot on Daenerys’ lap. His red eyes looked right at Jon, seeing him, not knowing that he was a Snow or an Aegon, but  _ knowing  _ him, like he always had.

Jon did not want to bring misery, especially not to Dany. He wanted to bring life, and hope, and maybe even happiness, if he could. He brought Daenerys’ gloved hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I say aye. What else would I say?”

Dany’s smile was tearful thing, just like when he had bent the knee. She breathed in deeply, and exhaled shakily. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

“Your Grace!” A voice shouted from the entrance of the Godswood. “Your Grace!”

A figure was running toward them. Jon and Daenerys stood, staying close but dropping their joined hands.

The figure resolved into little Ned Umber, panting and kicking up snow. Ghost growled low at his fast approach, making the boy trip backwards and land on his rump.

“Away, Ghost,” Jon ordered. The wolf slunk away deeper into the forest. Jon helped the boy to his feet, brushing snow off him.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ned Umber bowed to Jon, and then Daenerys, “Your Grace.” His chest was heaving from his run.

“Catch your breath, Lord Umber,” Jon told him.

Ned sucked in a few deep breaths. He held up a scroll. “I just got a raven from my maester. Dated a few days previous.”

“What is it?” Jon asked, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach, and Ned’s nervous shifting and wide eyes almost confirmed what Jon suspected before he got the words out. Ned gulped.

“My maester, he writes that those still alive at Mole's Town and The Gift arrived at Last Hearth some days ago with what's left of the Night's Watch. He said they have evacuated the keep and should be here within the week. They are fleeing from a storm approaching from the north.”

They barely had the space for those already at Winterfell, let alone anyone else. It would be good to have the extra fighters, but Jon just hoped Sansa's efficient planning and staunch gathering of food and resources over the last few months would be enough.

“Perhaps,” Daenerys said, and they looked to her. Her confidence did not falter. Jon had not expected it would. “Perhaps, for both those here and our new arrivals who cannot fight, we might speak to Lady Mormont about sending them to Bear Island? The dead can't swim.” It was like she knew his thoughts as they passed through his head. He almost smiled, and nodded.

Ned nodded too. “I can speak with Lady Lyanna myself.”

Jon almost felt ashamed at this. Ned Umber and Lyanna Mormont were of an age, and neither's allegiance had so much as wobbled when they heard who Jon's father really was. _ Let the children protect our people, and I can continue to fret over who I've warmed my bed with.  _ But then Ned turned his gaze to Daenerys and his lordling confidence disappeared. He was trembling a little. “My maester said something else too. He said at night time they can hear a terrible screeching. And sometimes see a great pale beast flying overhead.”

Daenerys’ face twitched, only minutely, but Ned ducked his head fearfully all the same. She seemed to notice the effect she had on him and stepped forward to place a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for bringing this straight to us,” she said gently. “You are very brave, and loyal.”

Jon saw the boy smile, a little. Ned looked at Jon for dismissal. “Good lad, Lord Umber,” Jon said, and Ned's smile grew.  

“Thank you, Your Grace, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me, I must begin my preparations.” Ned bowed again and rushed off.

Jon and Dany looked at each other when Ned was out of sight. Dany looked awfully pale, almost like she was ill, or in pain. Jon was sure he did not look much better. The burst of pleasure they had felt at their engagement guttered like a candle, as if the Night King himself had just blown it out. 


	4. One To Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol the chapters get long from here. think of these like the 80 min episodes. please pay attention to tags for heavy stuff in this chapter. trigger warning in the end notes. take care of yourselves, everyone!

It was early in the morning of his wedding day. 

The sun did not rise very high in the sky as winter trekked onwards, but Jon’s body knew when to wake up. He pulled on his breeches and boots and paused to say good morning to Ghost. The wolf slept beside his bed like he did as a pup, and he was nosing around Jon like he hoped there might be some bacon hidden away that he could have for breakfast. 

Jon ruffled his hands through Ghost’s fur. “Getting married tonight, boy,” he muttered, smiling and pushing Ghost’s chops away when he tried to lick Jon’s face. “Never thought that would happen, eh? Remember when I found you in the woods? Theon called you and me the runts of the litter. We showed him, didn’t we?” Ghost panted in his face, almost like he was smiling too. 

There was a pounding on his door that made both of them jump.

Jon grabbed his tunic and shoved it on. He went to the door with Ghost at his heels. 

It was Jorah. 

“You have to come now,” he said, his voice even more gravelly and serious than usual. He was barely dressed, tunic and breeches just like Jon, a cloak slung over his shoulders and his sword hanging loosely at his hip. 

Panic stabbed Jon all over like a hundred little needles. “Isn't it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?” He found himself jesting, like a scared idiot. 

Jorah did not laugh, or smile, or do anything. Jon noticed his hands seemed to have a little tremor. “Come now,” he repeated, then glanced at Ghost. “Leave your wolf.” 

“Stay, Ghost,” Jon said automatically. Ghost huffed unhappily and retreated to the smouldering hearth in Jon's room. Jon went to get his sword but Jorah reached forward and grabbed him, dragging him from his room. 

“No time. Quickly.” 

Jon was full terrified now. “Jorah, what's happened to Dany?” He asked as they jogged down, completely forgetting his formalities. 

Jorah didn't flinch at Jon using the nickname, didn't react at all. He still had a hold on Jon's sleeve, herding him like Jon didn't know these halls like the back of his hand, like he couldn't walk them in his sleep. Daenerys’ rooms weren't far from his, all the lords’ and ladies’ chambers were close by in Winterfell so the family could be near each other. They reached the door without a word, like Jorah was scared to speak. 

Jon's heart hadn't hammered this hard since the Bolton cavalry had been bearing down on him. There was only one Unsullied guard at her door, but when Jon burst into the room, he ran straight into a Dothraki bloodrider, which was rather like running into a brick wall. 

But there was no stand-off like Jon had come to expect from the protective horselords. Oko, as Jon believed this one was called, merely dipped his head respectfully and stepped aside to allow Jon entry. 

At first, Jon had no real notion of what he was seeing. There was Dany, of course, in a soft-looking nightgown. She was sat in bed with the covers pushed back, in the cradle of Missandei's arms. Missandei was stroking a hand through her long, loose hair.

They were whispering together, low enough Jon could not really catch their words― Dany caught Missandei’s wrist to continue speaking with her as she went to stand upon seeing Jon. 

It was when she moved that Jon saw the blood. 

His hand grasped for a sword he wasn’t wearing as he whirled to face Jorah. “What happened?” He demanded, harsh and frightened. “How did someone get in? Who attacked her? Where are they?” Jon would kill them himself if they weren’t already dead. Not for honour or the old ways, but because he _wanted to_. That anyone would _dare_ , in _his_ castle, on the day he was to _wed_ her ― 

But the look on Jorah’s face gave him pause, for it was deeper than sadness and worse than pity. “There was no attack, Jon.” 

“Then what―”

Missandei appeared next to them. She was looking at Jorah. There was blood on her hands. “She wants you to tell Tyrion,” she said simply, and Jorah nodded, and the two of them left, leaving Jon stood there like a fool. 

Dany was hunched over, sat cross-legged on her bed like a child, her head in her hands. She said something in Dothraki, and Oko responded with a few words, and he left too. As soon as he was gone, Jon rushed to her side. 

The bed looked terrible, and so did she. There was blood everywhere, like someone had knocked over a whole cask of red wine and it had spilled all over the sheets. Dany’s fingers were encrusted and the night dress was stained, and where the hem rode up her thighs, there was blood there too. Jon knelt at the bed. 

“Dany…” he whispered. “Love, what happened?” 

Her head shot up out of her hands― there was some blood smeared on her face, which was white as death, her lilac eyes swimming with tears. But the way she looked at him was the worst part. It was like she barely recognised him. 

“What ― _happened_?” She repeated, her voice wrecked. “You ask _what happened?_ ” Her words were cutting, like she was slicing off each one. Tears trembled in her eyes and fell onto her cheeks. “What do you _ think _ happened? Just look at me. Do you know  _ anything _ at all, Jon Snow?”

_ You know nothing, Jon Snow. _

And just like that, his beautiful, silver bride faded before his eyes and his fiery, red-haired spitfire was there, sneering one moment and darling the next. To him now, it felt as if in one breath she was naked in his arms, and by the next, she was dead in them. 

_ I do know some things.  _

He’d been with Ygritte a hundred times at least, any way they could have each other, no airs or graces to their time together. Jon knew what moonblood looked like, had no silly fear of it like some men. He and Ygritte had been mindful of her cycles and where his seed ended up, for the last thing either of them had needed was a squalling babe on top of everything else.

With Daenerys, he had not been mindful. 

It dawned on Jon in a horribly slow sort of way, like a chill creeping under the crack of a door to steal all the warmth from your home. He watched it like a mummer’s farce, like it was not something he had been part of, but merely an observer. He saw Daenerys telling him she was barren, and he saw himself not believing her. He saw the step after, himself knocking on her door, and the step after that, the two of them rocked to sleep on the Shivering Sea night after night―  and every step, all the way to the awful end, here, in her chamber, with blood saturating the bedsheets. 

Daenerys did not have the patience for the steady trickle of his realisation.

“It’s our _babe_ ,” She announced, like a death sentence, her voice brim-full of agony, red fingers snaking into red sheets. “From the boat.” 

Of course, he had been so much under the impression that the way he loved her could be stronger than any curse a witch had put on her womb, that it was hard for him to even comprehend that this could be their fate, that a woman thousands called  _ Mother  _ could never bear her own child, that something he had hoped for so strongly, so purely, was even capable of being touched by the cruel whims of the real world.

His mouth moved almost of its own volition. “How long did you know?”

She swallowed, biting her lip. “I thought ― Missandei and I suspected…when we left White Harbour―”

“ _When_ _we_ _left White Harbour_?” Suddenly, Jon snapped, feeling like a direwolf, gnashing teeth and rage. It made him rise to his feet, like he was ready to pounce. It was like those dreams he used to have, where he saw through Ghost’s eyes. “That was nearly two moons ago! You― you knew and you didn’t―!” 

“I was afraid!” She hit back, and her fire outmatched his a thousand-fold. She was frightening when she was wroth, like the storm she had been born into, and her sorrow made it all the harder to withstand. “Afraid of the war with the Night King, and the war with Cersei, afraid you would reject my marriage proposal, or that you didn’t even want me anymore, afraid what your sisters would think, what your lords would say. But I was most afraid of  _ this _ !” 

Dany threw out her hands in an expansive gesture to the mess she sat in. When she took it all in again, it seemed to shatter her once more, and more tears slid down her face. 

“Viserion was gone, and this grew inside me. Only death can pay for life.” She said this in such a way that Jon knew it was a thing someone had told her, and she had taken it deeply to heart. He wondered if it was the witch, this mysterious woman who had cast such a dark shadow over Daenerys’ life. Dany was shaking her head, eyes wide, lip quivering, her hands sinking into her hair. For a heartbeat, she looked like she was going mad. “I thought― I wanted to― but then your brother told us what the Night King did to Viserion. I was foolish to hope.” She seemed unwilling, or maybe unable, to look at him. She closed her eyes and hid her face for a moment. Then she dropped her hands into her lap.

With regal poise, she said, “We cannot wed.” 

Jon thought that was fairly obvious. “Of course we can’t today, no one would expect―”

Her eyes flew open. “Not  _ ever, _ Aegon.”

It was like Alliser Thorne had shoved his knife into Jon’s gut all over again, and Bowen Marsh, and Othell Yarwyk. 

And that  _ name _ … that  _ damned _ name…

That was Olly’s blade, sliding right into his heart.

“You don’t mean that,” he said. 

“I do. It was the first thing I thought, once I realised what had happened. Once I take the throne, I will name you my heir―”

“No―stop it―” Jon said, almost on a sob, shaking his head and going as if to kneel by her bedside again but she held out a hand to prevent him. 

“You must have heirs,” She said, gently, with all reason, as if that could make him listen. “I can only give you death.”

“No,” He did kneel now, and took one of her hands in his, and threw aside his pride at how he was begging her like a supplicant, for it mattered not in the face of this disaster. “My brothers at the Night’s Watch gave me death. It is all the Night King offers. You give me reason to live. Dany,  _ please _ ―”

“As I said,” She spoke as if he had not interrupted. The tears were dry on her face. His sad, sweet girl all gone. Her hand slipped out of his. Here was Queen Daenerys, like a mask she placed on for a ball, incredibly life-like, but not what Jon admired, or cared about. It made hope leak from his chest like pus. “Once I take the throne, I will name you my heir and find you a suitable wife―”

“I said no.”

She ignored him. “Any heirs you have, male or female, will rule when we are gone.” 

“Why are you doing this?” He whispered.

“It would be inappropriate, and unwise, for the remaining Targaryens to form a union that will produce no heirs to the throne.”

“I don’t give a fuck about  _ heirs _ to that bloody Iron Throne―” The look she gave him was filled with a dire warning to choose his next words very carefully. He did not. “I don’t care, Dany. I won’t do it. You can’t force me.” 

Dany had spoken to him briefly of her brother Viserys and how he would sometimes fly into towering rages, how he had called it _waking the dragon_. Jon took in how she glared at him, the cadence of her voice, the perilous sheen to her eyes, and thought he had just woken the dragon himself.

“If both of us return to the dirt without issue,” she hissed, “That is the end of our House, the end of our family! Not that you care about _that_.” 

“That's not true,” Jon said, trying to keep his voice even. But this seemed to make Daenerys even angrier.

“It _is_!” She spat viciously through her teeth. “You are happy to be Lyanna’s son because you are proud to be a Stark but being a Targaryen disgusts you because you despise Rhaegar.” 

“I don't despise Rhaegar. I never knew him.” 

“I could tell you about him,” She seemed to be beseeching him, her voice cracking and more fat tears rolling down her cheeks, “if you ever _asked_ me." 

_Wind and words_ , Jon wanted to say. _It’s all just wind and words. That's all my mother and father are now. That's all we have left of them._

But he bit his tongue, for he knew it would do nothing but upset her more. He did not know how they had even reached this point. It was off-course from the argument they had just been having, although perhaps it was the undercurrent that had run beneath all their conversations since the day Jon’s life had changed. Jon wondered fleetingly how many conversations would have been different, if Rhaegar had never rode past his wife at the tourney at Harrenhal. 

He supposed it did not matter now.

Daenerys sniffed and wiped her eyes. She looked young and very weary. “This is getting us nowhere. I feel very unwell and would like you to leave now. I have made my decision.”

“I’m not one of your subjects―”

“I am your  _ Queen _ ―” 

“We were going to wed, that makes us equals―”

_ This is a terrible way for things to end _ , Jon thought. Snipping at each other like children, like vapid Southron lords who could not decide which brocade looked best on their sleeves.  _ This is not the way.  _ It was not how Ned had raised him. 

“I’m the head of our House―” 

“I’m older than you―”

“You bent the knee to me, you  _ swore _ ―”

“Do you not love me anymore?” He asked, which silenced her. Jon did not know which he dreaded more, if she kept silent, or answered. “Is that it? I made you pregnant, and you’ve lost your babe, and now you no longer love me?” 

There was a knock at the door.

It seemed to break the world in two around them, like a comprehension that things existed outside of the two of them and their anguish. 

Dany took a deep, hitching breath, and composed herself. She stood gingerly, refusing Jon’s help, trying to smooth out her ruined nightgown. The sight rocked Jon to his core all over again when she vacated the bed― a life that had been flowering inside her, something that was half her and half Jon and wholly someone else, reduced to some bloodied bedsheets. Jon had a sudden swooping sense of time running out, and he crowded Dany against her bed. She ducked her head so she would not have to look at him, her hair falling like a curtain between them. 

“You talk of making a different world, a better world,” He said in a low voice, and she shivered like she was cold. “But you’d force me to marry some poor woman I don’t know and make her bear my children to sit on a throne that could mean nothing to her. You’d bind two people together and doom them to be unhappy and unloved for the rest of their lives, all for the sake of a legacy. Is that how you destroy the wheel? Is that what the Breaker of Chains does?” 

This seemed to cut Dany to the quick. Her knees buckled and she sat back heavily onto her soiled bed, cradling her stomach, like she was cupping the bump that had not grown. 

“You know I’m right,” Jon said, with a lack of mercy that shocked him as he said it. 

“Pass me my chamber pot,” She ordered, so he did, swiftly. She turned away from him to be sick. He reached forward to stroke her back. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped, shrugging him off. 

There was another knock. “Your Grace?” came Missandei’s soft voice. 

Jon sat by Dany on the bed, uncaring about the blood or how she had cast him aside, even when she shrank from him. He spoke with quiet firmness and determination, “You don’t have to marry me today, or tomorrow, or after the war. Or ever. But I won’t sit on the Iron Throne without you. And I won’t marry anyone else.” 

Her shoulders shook from where she had started silently weeping. 

“If we die, we die,” Jon said, and he took her sweaty, limp little hand in his and pressed a kiss as gently as he could to her palm. “But first we’ll live.”

“Your Grace?” Missandei called again, with more urgency. “I’ve brought hot water for a bath. We have fresh sheets and medicine for you. Can I come in?” 

“Come,” Dany managed to choke out before she heaved into the chamber pot again. 

Missandei backed into the room with a bucket of steaming water, with Gilly following her, looking sad and nervous and holding a small medicine box, along with two chambermaids, one weighed down with another bucket and one with arms full of clean bedding. 

“Leave me, Aegon,” Dany rasped. 

“Daenerys…” He began, remembering himself a little in present company, though it hardly mattered. The look on the chambermaids’ faces spoke for themselves― it was like Ygritte had said, he was a warrior, but blood spilled in the night was a woman's business too.

Dany pinned him with a look, eyes bloodshot and watery. “Go.”

He could not think of another thing he could say to convince her to let him remain, so he left. Tyrion was outside when he exited, looking very grave. If possible, upon seeing him Jon’s mood became even worse, souring like old milk. 

“Mormont told me,” Tyrion said in a low voice. “How is she?”

“Very upset. Very unwell.” Jon felt like these were understatements, but they sufficed.

Tyrion nodded. “She’s strong. She will recover.”

“I need you to gather the lords in the Hall,” Jon said, his throat constricting unhelpfully. “Tell them there’ll be no wedding.”

“Not  _ today _ , obviously, we’ll say she’s caught a chill or some such―”

“Not  _ ever _ , the Queen said.”

Tyrion inhaled sharply. He looked suddenly very sorry for Jon. “She’s upset, like you said. She can be… impulsive, when she’s upset. She’ll come around.”

“Will she?” Jon hissed. “She was talking of succession and heirs and suitable matches. Who put that in her head, if not _you_?” 

Tyrion sucked on his teeth, looking shamefaced. “Mm. My father would be pleased.” He clearly saw how Jon was not in the mood for japes or clever words, for he gave no more. He gave Jon an earnest look. “She loves you, Jon. She will come around.”

The hurt and anger that was simmering like a pot of stew in Jon’s stomach boiled over. He ground his teeth together. “Just tell the lords,” he bit out. He then stalked away to find Longclaw and something to swing it at.

 

 

He did not see Daenerys for the rest of the day, nor the day after. She confined herself to her chambers, took what meals she could stomach alone. When she wasn't abed, she only spoke with her own advisors and generals, although Jon suspected Arya might have managed to worm her way into that private retinue. Jon spent his two days in the training yard running drills and sparring with anyone who volunteered to fight him. 

“You are sad,” Grey Worm said when their steel crossed up close. Jon pushed against him, but Grey Worm's hold wouldn't break. “You are angry. These things do not help in a fight.” 

“Thought the Unsullied didn't talk when they fought,” Jon grunted. 

Grey Worm's eyes narrowed. He flicked his wrists, sweeping Jon's feet out from under him with the shaft of his spear, sending Jon sprawling onto the ground. The tip of the spear touched his throat. 

“Now you are dead,” Grey Worm announced. “This is only practice. What will you do when not practice?” 

“Not fight you, apparently,” Jon puffed, winded. Grey Worm held out his hand and helped Jon to his feet. There was a row of ten-year-old boys and girls lined up waiting for him, including little Lyanna Mormont, who looked deeply uninspired by Jon’s defeat. The sight of children clutching their sparring swords did indeed make him sad, and angry.

On the second day, Arya stepped up with her hands tucked neatly behind her back. Her expression was coolly expectant, although there was a small smile on her lips.

“I'm not fighting you.” 

“Why?” She raised her eyebrows, the smile widening. “Because you'll lose?” 

“I won't lose against you. You're half my size.” 

Arya's face suddenly became very calm and collected. She turned to stand side-face and drew Needle. “Let's see, shall we?” 

Jon twirled Longclaw in his hand and dropped into a fighting stance. 

Arya was not like anyone he had sparred with before. She ducked and dived, dodging more of his blows than she met with her own sword, gliding through her motions like water over pebbles. She was small, like he said, but powerful, just like Daenerys, and at the thought of Dany, Jon ended up smacking Arya hard with the flat of his blade and she fell down, clutching her ribs. 

The yard went quiet.

He dropped Longclaw immediately and went to her side. “Arya, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?” 

Arya wheezed for a moment, making him feel like a monster. Then with a burst of speed, she tackled him, sending him flat onto his back. Dark Sister hovered no more than an inch from one of his eyes. “Yield,” she growled. 

That was when Sansa appeared above them, looking livid and pulling Arya off Jon by the scruff of her neck. It was not until he had been knocked down by the Hound, Brienne, Bronn and four of Lord Cerwyn's fighters of varying ages and abilities whilst Tormund and Jaime Lannister stood and laughed, that Sansa returned to drag him away as well. 

On the third day, Davos and Tyrion cornered him after dinner. They were giving him pointed looks. “Excuse me, ser, my lord,” he muttered with forced courtesy. “I was just about to find my bed.” 

Davos chuckled. “You’ll do no such thing, lad.” 

Tyrion was smirking at him too. “After watching you get pummelled by half of Winterfell, Ser Davos and I have decided you’ve brooded long enough. Drink with us, Your Grace. Nothing tends to a broken heart like a belly of wine.” 

“I don't have a broken heart,” Jon said stiffly. 

Tyrion clapped him on the wrist then sauntered away as if he just expected Jon to follow. “Of course you do. Come along.”

Davos raised his grey scraggly brows at Jon. “Tormund told me to tell you if you didn't come, he'd drag you by your pretty hair. His words, not mine.”

 

 

Jon was not as deep in his cups as the others when Missandei entered his solar, but he was deep enough. Tormund was pounding the table with his fist and howling with laughter at a bawdy sea shanty Davos was singing for him, and Gendry and Tyrion were sat propped up together against the wall, snoring. 

He got to his feet a little unsteadily when he saw her. Davos was delighted, cutting off his song ― it was just getting back to the bit about the fisherman’s daughter’s treasure chest, a rather piss-poor metaphor compared to The Dornishman’s Wife if you asked Jon, which nobody did ― to cry out with gusto, “S’Missandei of Narth! Welcome, fair lady!”

Tyrion snorted in his sleep and awoke, jumping to his feet and knocking Gendry off his stool. “Missandei, s’it the queen? Does she have need ‘f me?” There was some rather choice language coming from under the table where Gendry was trying to pick himself up off the floor. Davos kicked him to make him shut up. Tormund was grinning at Missandei. She smiled back politely. 

“Please, do not let me interrupt, my lords,” She said in her magnanimous, charming way. Her intelligent, pretty eyes landed on Jon, who tried his very best to seem totally sober. “I only came to inform His Grace that Her Grace has requested an audience with him in her chambers. If he would be so kind.” She gestured to the door. 

That was like a slap of cold air to the face. “Of course. Lead the way.” He turned to bid farewell to his drinking companions, who all looked very pleased with themselves. “Gentlemen.”

“We’ll finish th’wine,” Tyrion slurred, reaching for his empty cup and looking into it with deep disappointment. Jon left his chambers with Missandei to the sounds of roaring laughter at Tyrion’s predicament. 

“What does Daenerys want to speak about?” He asked Missandei as they walked. He felt as if a snow flurry of nerves was swirling in his stomach. He worried perhaps he had drunk too much. 

“You’ll have to ask her, Your Grace. I’m afraid I don’t know.” But Missandei was smiling a little bit like she did know. 

She left him at Daenerys’ chamber door. 

He steeled himself and knocked. “It’s Jon,” he called.

“Come in,” she called back.

He entered and closed the door quickly. The chambers were exceedingly warm. Rooms in Winterfell kept their warmth from the hot springs as it was, but a fire was cracking and popping away in the hearth, candles were lit all around, and the handle of a bed warmer stuck out from under the furs. It was stifling with all his leathers on. The bed looked fresh made, and there was no sign at all that any tragedy had happened here. The air smelled exotic. Jon imagined it was some oil or incense Dany had brought from Essos. 

And by the hearth was Daenerys, soaking in a large tub of water.

Jon dropped his gaze to his feet. “Forgive me, Your Grace, Missandei didn’t tell me―I didn't mean to―”

“I wouldn’t have let you in if I minded you seeing,” She said with warmth. He looked up. She was looking at him almost hungrily, and his eyes ate up the sight of her as well. Strange how he had gone nearly all his life never knowing her, or laying eyes on her, barely ever thinking of her, and now a few days apart was too much for him. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”

“Aye?”

She propped her chin in her hand on the side of the bath, and then did the most wonderful thing. She smiled at him. “Would you care to join me, Jon Snow?”

The worried hum in his stomach turned into something different. She knew he loved it when she called him  _ Jon Snow.  _ He did not even have to think about it. He stripped off as quickly as he could, and the room was that warm the loss of his clothes barely made a difference. Dany curled herself up small at one end of the tub to make room for him. When he neared and raised one foot to climb in, she warned, “Careful. The water is rather warm.”

Jon was rather eager to be near her again, especially alone, and naked, so he went right ahead and dunked his foot into the water.

“Seven hells!” He exclaimed, hopping backwards. Dany covered her smile with her hand. “That’s burning hot!” 

Dany shrugged. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.”

“Do you have all your baths this hot?”

“Yes. Come, be brave. You shan't melt.”

Jon lowered himself very slowly into the bath, blowing out a long breath to calm how his skin was howling in protest against the scalding water. He brought his knees close to his chest so they could both sit comfortably at their ends of the tub, but Dany moved closer to him, narrowing her eyes a little and sniffing at him, a bit like Ghost would.

“You smell like wine,” She accused. 

“You can thank Tyrion for that.” Dany nodded, not needing any more explanation. Jon tried his luck. “If you kiss me, I’ll taste like it too. Dornish strongwine. Your favourite.” 

“Well, with an offer such as that…” She leaned in, setting his heart aflutter, and when her lips met his, all the pain and grief of the past few days seemed to rise up and away with the bathwater’s steam. 

“I’m sorry,” She said when they separated.

“I know.” He kissed her again. “Me too.” 

“Will you hold me?” 

He nodded, stretching out his legs in the water and leaning back against the wall of the tub, giving her room to turn and lie against him. He wrapped his arms carefully around her waist. Like this, the heat of the water felt good, like it gave him clarity, and kept him safe.

“Are you in pain?” He asked, hoping it wasn’t the stupidest question to ever come out his mouth. 

“Yes, a bit. It’s going from me now though. The water helps. Your friend Sam’s lady Gilly was very helpful too.” 

Jon ran his fingers over little ridges he could feel on her stomach. Scars, perhaps? He heard women got them when their bellies stretched growing a child. His eyes suddenly felt rather scratchy, and he blinked away the moisture. “How do you feel?” He whispered. 

“Empty,” She whispered back, plain and honest, which did not help his endeavour to not weep.

“I'm sorry.” He kept quiet to hide the creak in his voice. 

“It's alright. I haven't felt truly whole since I lost my Rhaego. There are some holes that cannot be healed, not with followers, nor kingdoms, or even dragons.” 

She shifted, trying to get closer to him, and the feeling of her skin sliding against his in the water, slick like silk, had him stirring with interest in a way that made Jon feel ashamed. He was sure she must be able to feel it against her back. “Sorry,” he said again, gruffly, trying to sit up straight to put some distance between them. “I didn't mean to ― it just ―” But Dany did not seem to mind, just tucked herself right up against his chest. She entwined their fingers and drifted his hands up her body to gently cup her breasts. Jon let out a long, broken breath. He ducked his head to kiss the damp skin of her neck, and she let out a sigh of her own. 

“Let's wed tomorrow night,” Dany breathed, so softly he almost didn’t hear her. But he did. 

“We don’t have to. I told you―”

“I was imprisoned in a warlock’s palace once,” She said, resting her head in the space between his shoulder and neck, and he went mute at the strange change of subject. “He showed me visions. Strange things that did not make sense for some time. Snow falling on the Iron Throne. My son abandoned beyond the Wall. And Rhaegar… I saw Rhaegar, and he looked at me, and spoke to me. ‘There must be one more,’ he said. ‘The dragon must have three heads’. It was always that final one who was missing. There were his children Rhaenys and Aegon, and when they were gone, there was Viserys, and me, and then Viserys was gone too and I was the last Targaryen. But Rhaegar told me there was another... And here you are.” 

If this was her attempt to gain absolution from him, or even just what she had been contemplating all these days, it did not bring him joy. She seemed to sense his disappointment. 

“I dreamed of you, also, before we met,” She added, fluttering her eyelashes girlishly at him. 

“Of me?” Jon repeated, so perplexed he could not even enjoy her flirtation.

“On the Summer Sea when we sailed to Astapor, I dreamt of a lover, young and handsome and all mine own.” Jon felt his cheeks growing warm and it had nothing to do with the bath water. “But his face was always in shadow,” Dany continued, reached back with a wet hand to touch Jon's cheek. “Imagine my surprise when he walked into my throne room at Dragonstone.” 

Jon tilted his face to kiss at her fingers. He scraped a nail over one of her nipples, making her squeak and squirm a little. “You didn't know then. What would happen between us. You can't have.” 

“Maybe not entirely,” She agreed, preening a little when he rubbed his thumbs over her breasts one last time before dropping his hands into the water. “But sooner or later, my dreams come true.”  

“You told me in the throne room at Dragonstone that you didn't believe in myths and legends.” 

She tilted her head back to meet his eye. “I told you I believe in Targaryens.”

Jon took hold of her hips and turned her around in the water, so her knees fell either side of his, and he could look her full in the face. The movements made water spill over the sides of the tub. “I don't want to marry you because of prophecies, or some dream ―” She went to interrupt him but he continued over her, desperate for her understanding. “You  _ know _ why I want to marry you. And I hope it's why you want to marry me, the  _ true _ reason. You said you had faith. So  _ have faith _ .” 

Daenerys seemed to be stunned into silence for a moment, before she said very quietly, “You are unlike anyone else I've ever met.”

“I'm nothing special,” He replied sheepishly. 

“But you are.” Jon felt as though he might go mad with love for her when she was like this, when she was soft and lovely and  _ his _ . “You are to me.” Her hand slipped under the water and down between his legs, where he was half-hard just from her closeness. 

Jon huffed out a little chuckle, head falling against the rim of the tub. “I’m convinced. Don't need extreme measures.”

Dany kissed his throat with tenderness, all the way up until her lips were at his ear.  “I was wrong to despair of us,” she whispered. Her touch was steady but insistent, making Jon's eyes roll back into his head. “Please forgive me.”

“Gods…Dany… I forgive you…just…please...”  

“Wed me tomorrow night. Say you will.”

“I’ll wed you whenever,” he panted. “I'll wed you here in the fucking bath if you like.”

“Tomorrow.” Her teeth nipped at his earlobe.

“Tomorrow,” He repeated. 

Dany gazed at him for a moment that stretched on like an eternity, those impossible heather eyes glowing in the fire light. Her movements had ceased as she drank in whatever it was of his face that pleased her. 

“Don't stop,” he moaned, only a little shy of pleading.

Her smile was a dazzling thing. Jon marvelled that she ever needed dragons at all, when men would surely have fallen gladly on their knees if she had smiled at them in such a way. 

“Oh, my heart. As if I ever would.” 

She surged forward to bruise her mouth against his. Jon melted down into the tub until the hot kiss of the water and the sweet grasp of her hand became the only two things in the world that mattered.

 

 

When the wedding party returned from the Godswood the next evening, they went straight to the Great Hall to get warm. They toasted with spiced wine and ate hot soup with bread and butter and garlic. It was meagre, as far as royal weddings went, but Jon didn't care. And from the way Dany drank and laughed and sang with her Dothraki riders, she didn't seem to mind either.

They left everyone in the Hall, walking hand-in-hand to his chambers. Jon scooped Dany up into his arms to carry her over the threshold, which had her giggling like a little girl. In the room, they stripped bare in almost silence, undid their hair in almost silence, and climbed under the furs of Jon's bed in almost silence.

There was technically no need for a consummation. Even if there had been, Jon knew there could be no lovemaking tonight. It had not yet been a week since Dany had miscarried, and she still had pains, and Jon could not stand the idea of putting another child in her that they might lose.

Their kisses were soft and slow. There was not the reverence of that first night on the boat to White Harbour, nor the heat of the nights that followed ― this passion was not one of discovery, it was of homecoming. Soon enough, Jon drew back to rest his cheek on her chest. Dany wrapped her arms around him and tucked his head under her chin.

“Are you upset with me?” He breathed.

“Why should I be?” Her tone was light. He was almost glad he didn't have to look at her, even if she was smiling. “What have you done wrong?”

“Back in the Godswood, when Sansa asked who came to claim you, I didn't… I couldn't say… _ that  _ name _. _ ”

“I suspected you wouldn't.”

“It's just ―” Now he tried to shift to look at her, ashamed for not facing his new wife when he told her truths, but Dany held him tightly, like she did not want to stop cradling him as she was. “Jon Snow prayed to the old gods from when he was a boy. Jon Snow spoke his Night's Watch vows before the old gods. And when we begged their blessings tonight, I… I thought they might be more likely to listen, if it was a name they knew.”

Dany was slowly carding her fingers through his hair. Now he could hear the smile in her voice. “Tyrion warned me Northerners were a superstitious lot.”

“No more than Targaryens, I reckon,” Jon teased, pressing a kiss to the underside of her breast.

“ _ Qoy qoyi _ ,” Dany murmured.

“What's that?”

“Blood of my blood.” Her hand ghosted down his face and neck, nails scratching at his beard.

Jon shuddered a little, closing his eyes to savour her touch. The crackle of the fire and the whistle of the wind outside seemed to shrink and dim, the whole world turning slow and thick as a drop of honey, until Jon opened his eyes again and realised he had drifted off to sleep. He looked over at Dany, who had found her own side of the bed, her hair spilling around her like cloth of silver. Delicate lavender eyelids hid those sharp lilac eyes he adored, although he could see the flitting movements that meant she was dreaming.

_ Do you dream of the Iron Throne? Or silver-haired children?  _ He wondered.  _ Will we die? Will we be happy? If your dreams really do come true, what do you see that may yet come to pass? _

One of her hands was stretched out across the bed, resting near one of his knife wounds that would never heal. When sleep dragged him back under, he dreamt it was not Dany who lay beside him, but the Night King. The hand on his chest tore through skin and muscle and bone and closed around his still-beating heart.

He awoke with a strangled yell, to Ghost's wet nose in his ear.

Daenerys was stood by the window. She had wrapped herself in her ceremonial Targaryen wedding cloak, and in the half-light of dawn, she appeared as gaunt as a ghost. It looked as though she had been crying.

“The refugees are at the gates,” She told him in a voice like cold, hard steel.

There was a bowl and a wet rag by the bed that hadn't been there the night before. Jon pushed back the furs to see red spotted on the sheets. A sickening sort of sadness rose up in his chest.

“About half of them, I imagine,” Dany continued. “Maybe three quarters.”

Jon let Ghost climb up into his lap, although he was far too large for it. He pressed his face into the thick white fur to stop feeling like he was about to fly apart. 

The last remnants of their child stained the bed, and there was no need to ask what had happened to the rest of the refugees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: dany miscarries boatsex baby. description of miscarriage aftermath and discussion of child loss/death.


	5. The Battle for the Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does what it says on the tin, my dudes! hope you're all wearing your plot armour bc these characters sure as shit are.

Five days later, Winterfell was woken by three horn blasts in the dead of the night.

 

 

“She looks like Queen Visenya,” Arya said as she and Jon hurried along the battlements. Down in the yard, the fighters of Winterfell were moving out the gates with great commotion. Their breaths rose in a white cloud as they marched out to join the thousands of Dothraki and Unsullied. There would be no vanguard for this battle. They would charge as one.

“What?”

“Daenerys, in her armour,” Arya said as they took the steps two at a time. “She looks like drawings of Visenya in the books I used to read. She was Aegon's warrior queen.”

“I know who Visenya Targaryen was,” Jon snapped. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them shaking. The horn blew again, and again, and again, as it had been doing for what felt like hours now.

Jon had kissed Sansa before she was bustled off with Tyrion, Missandei, Varys, Bran, those who were not fighters, or were too precious to risk or send away. Jon was sending Ghost down into the crypt to guard them, and he would sorely miss his wolf on the field. Sansa had protested strongly, shoving a guard and an Unsullied out her way. “I'll fight,” she'd said through gritted teeth, crushing Jon's hand in hers. “You said you needed everyone. How hard can it be to swing a sword?”

“There's no time now,” he’d insisted, trying to pry her fingers off him. “I need you to be safe. I'm so sorry. You're the Lady of Winterfell. Please, Sansa.”

“It's not hard,” Arya pointed out blithely. Jon had jumped. He hadn't even known she was behind him. “You just stab them a lot with the sharp bit until they stop moving. She could do it.”

Sansa gave Jon a blazing look.

“But,” Arya continued, “Jon's right. If you die, the North is fucked even if we win.” She’d darted forward, and kissed Sansa on the cheek. Jon was stunned. He didn't think Arya had ever kissed Sansa before. Sansa appeared to have the same realisation, and it had sapped the fight right out of her.

Jon had taken pity on her and pressed one of his dragonglass daggers into her hand. “Take care of Bran,” he pleaded, even though he knew she would.

When Sansa looked at them, her eyes were full of tears. “Don't die.”

“That's the plan,” Arya and Jon had said at the exact same time.

Now he and Arya moved swiftly out of the gates to meet the end of the world in the snow. The throng parted for them to get through, although Arya was slipping between them with no trouble. “The King in the North!” Someone shouted when they saw Jon, and the cry got louder as they marched through the camps of Daenerys’ men.  “The King in the North! Snow! Snow! House Stark! For the North! For the North!”

 _For us all_ , he thought.  

“I'm just saying, she looks good," Arya continued. "With the armour." 

“Why are you still talking about Visenya Targaryen?” He demanded.

“I’m talking about _Daenerys_. She's your Visenya. And you're her Aegon. Sansa used to like songs more than me, but that's pretty poetic.”

Jon grit his teeth. “She's not my Visenya, she's my Daenerys. I mean. She's not ― she's my wife but she's not ― and I'm not ― Can we just focus on not dying?”

“I know death. He's got many faces. I look forward to seeing this one.”

 _Death doesn't have a face,_ Jon wanted to tell her. _Death is a cold knife in the night, and then there's nothing. And that's if you're lucky._ Instead, he just glared at her. “I thought you were smart enough to be afraid.”

But Arya just smiled at him, sharp as a knife. “ _Valar morghulis.”_

They met the Targaryen host, so large that by the time they got to the front, they were almost a mile away from the gates of Winterfell.

Daenerys was at the head of her armies, petting Drogon under his jaw like he was a skittish kitten. Rhaegal was soaring above. And Arya was right, like usual, damn her. Dany looked formidable in her glittering black and red armour. Her moonbeam hair was oiled and braided down her back, adorned with tiny silver bells. There were dragonglass daggers strapped to her thighs.

“In case you lose your mount,” Jon had explained when he gave them to her.

Her Dothraki Queensguard hadn't liked that one bit, hissing and tittering. One of her bloodriders stepped up to Jon, towering over him. “Blood of my blood is not milk man in metal clothes who cannot sit horse. She is Khaleesi and she does not fall.”

 _The Dothraki respect strength,_ Dany told him, _nothing more and nothing less_. So he'd met her bloodrider's eye and simply said, “Well, I'd like her to have them anyway.”

She met Jon's gaze across the swarms of men and women. She was every inch the woman he'd met at Dragonstone, regal and beautiful and terrible. His warrior queen indeed. He went to take a step toward her when there was an earth-shuddering _thud_ behind him and the Northerners fell back in fear. Jon felt scorching hot breath at his back. He turned very slowly, and found himself face to face with Rhaegal. The dragon wore a sort of helm over his massive head and plate over the vulnerable places on his scales. They weren't making the same mistakes they made beyond the Wall. Dany had fit the armour herself, for no one else dared. He reached forward, with painful care, and patted Rhaegal's snout. The heat of his scales bled right through Jon's glove.

“Be good, eh?” He said quietly, feeling awkward.

Rhaegal did something strange then, ducking his head and neck, dropping his wing to give Jon a view of his back.

Jon stood there, uncomprehending.  

Some of his fighters behind him caught on quicker than he did.

“Dragonrider!” Someone yelled. A few of them let out nervous laughs but others cheered and banged their fists against their shields.

But Jon took a step away, holding out a hand as if he could ward the dragon off. Never mind that Rhaegal could remove his hand with a snap of his jaws if he wished. Those molten bronze eyes seemed to see into his very soul, seemed to speak him. _This is not some small thing. Will you take what I offer?_

“No,” He told Rhaegal. “Not a chance.”

The dragon gave an unimpressed sort of grumble deep in his chest and twisted away from Jon. That, it seemed for Rhaegal, was that.

Jon could not bring himself to look at Dany to see her reaction.

The horn sounded again, and the Northerners fell silent. The only noises were the dragons’ snorting, the horses’ hooves tramping fretfully at the ground, and the sound of marching feet in the distance. Jon could see the snow storm approaching, and in it, thousands upon thousands of shuffling forms.

Fear squeezed his heart so hard he thought it might stop.

 _Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?_ He and his brothers had asked their father years ago.

A dire screech split the air.

Dany ascended up onto Drogon. He also wore his own black armour to match his mother's. Jon imagined that was the first thing the unconquered people of Westeros had seen of their future― Balerion the Dread, resplendent in his Valyrian dragon armour, swooping into their cities, so gigantic he blocked out the sun. Daenerys looked tiny perched between Drogon's leathery wings. Jon had a sudden urge to call out to her, to beg her to stay alive, to tell her he loved her.

“ _Sōvēs!”_

With thundering bellows, Drogon and Rhaegar took to the sky. The wind whipping up from their wings caused everyone to stumble back. The Dothraki screamers lost no time, taking off at a gallop across the frozen fields, swinging their dragonglass arakhs. The Unsullied ran too, their shields and obsidian-tipped spears held high.

But the Northmen did not move. They waited for Jon's command.  

 _That is the only time a man can be brave,_ Ned had told his sons.

The wight dragon shrieked again, and high in the clouds he saw three shapes crash together, and sickly blue flames mingled with bright orange.

 _I am the sword in the darkness,_ Jon told himself. _I am the fire that burns against the cold. I am the light that brings the dawn._ He unsheathed Longclaw. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men._

“With me now!” He hollered, and there was the ringing of hundreds of blades being drawn and an answering cry of “ _The King in the North_!” as they began the charge through the snow. Jon looked around for Arya, expecting to see her racing along next to him, Needle in one hand and Dark Sister in the other. But there was no one beside him.  

 

It was unlike any battlefield Jon had ever fought on.

He did not know who was dead and who yet lived. He had no way of knowing if it had been minutes or hours or days.

There could be no strategy that would give them an advantage. They had drilled as many different scenarios as they could concoct, Westerosi and Essosi combat styles and combinations of both, in the hopes something might work. But there was little they could really do except fight as hard as they could for as long as they could.

The night had been closing in for days, but it was full dark now. The sky was a heavy grey mass bearing down on them. The only light came from masses of fallen wights, torched and glowing like beacons.

They were half-blinded by the snow that came down thick and fast, but still the air boiled from the plumes of dragonfire overhead. The clash of flame and cold had made the ground itself deadly. In places, they fought ankle deep in icy water, but in others they were in as much danger from slipping and cracking their skulls on the slick ground where the Walkers refroze the snow melt, as they were from the Walkers themselves.

There was only one thing they had just gained on their side. The wight dragon had been slain.

Jon felt a mix of euphoria and sorrow when a hair-raising, screaming, tearing sound came from above. The headless wight dragon plummeted to the earth, crushing friend and foe alike beneath its dead weight. It was a gut-wrenching thing to witness the dragon die twice. Drogon and Rhaegal sounded triumphant in their victory, but Jon was imagining Dany, battling the Night King for the stolen life of one of her sons. He wondered if she had shed a tear as she watched Drogon sink his teeth into his brother's neck. _A dragon is not a slave_ , Jon told himself as he slashed through four wights trying to claw out his throat and eyes. Whatever that blue-eyed monster had been, it was not really Viserion.

Jon had a wild flash of hope ― perhaps the fall had killed the rider?

But it was a fool's hope. The Night King rose unscathed, and stepped over the severed neck of the beast like it was nothing. He did not survey the battlefield, did not leap into the fray. It was as if Jon had called out to him from across the slaughter. When his eyes fell on Jon, the entire battle seemed to fade away. There were hundreds of fighters separating them― but for Jon, there was only the Night King.

Something hot and strong billowed up inside him. _Wolf-blood_ , Ned had called it. It was a staggering kind of rage and recklessness at the sight of his enemy. A breathtaking sense of purpose.

Then a huge mass of green and bronze scales slammed down in front of Jon, blocking him from the Night King and flattening the wights around him.

“No, no, _no,_ you can't!” Jon babbled, rushing forward. “No! Rhaegal! Go back! Leave me! Go!”  

He ducked under Rhaegal's wing but he slipped and slid on the ground and slumped against the dragon's neck. The warmth was like a balm and the parts of him that felt frozen solid cried out to rest there forever. “Please go,” he begged. “Fly. Rhaegal, _please_. He'll kill you. Go to your mother now. Soves. Soves!”

But he could not speak the word properly, not how Dany could. The dragon was not like Ghost, to be shooed away from the dinner table when he sniffed for scraps.

Rhaegal's bright, burning eyes met his and they were fierce.

Dany had told him that dragons shared their master’s loves and hates. Was that why Rhaegal would not go? _You have more of the North in you than your brothers_ , Tyrion had said to him on the night they met. The blood of the First Men ran through his veins, but he was the blood of Old Valyria too, and Rhaegal knew it. Jon did not have the strength to climb onto the back of this impossible creature, who was named for Jon's long dead father he had never known. But Rhaegal chose to protect him anyway.

The Night King advanced.

He rose piles of corpses as he went. Wights wearing the Winterfell colours and Dothraki braids and Free Folk furs came barrelling towards Jon. Every time, Rhaegal let loose a stream of flame that turned the snow around them to steam and reduced the wights to ash. Nothing got near Jon. But still, the Night King came for him, cutting down any who stood in his path. _He wants me for_ _himself_ , Jon knew. He was letting the dragon obliterate his own army to get to him. The inferno Rhaegal created around him did not seem to bother the Night King. Jon watched as he drew a large, lethal-looking ice spear from the tattered scabbard strapped to his back. The sight chilled him to the bone, colder than the winter wind, and the heat pouring off Rhaegal could do nothing to dispel it.

Jon stood tall.

The Night King could have him. But he would not have another of Daenerys’ dragons.

He raised his sword and prepared to charge, no matter the cost. But Rhaegal snarled and flung out his wing, sending Jon sprawling into the melted snow, knocking Longclaw from his hand.

 _Stop!_ He wanted to scream. _Stop, you stupid beast. I have to kill him. I have to end this._

Blinking away the black spots in his vision, he felt around uselessly for his sword. Rhaegal let out a deafening roar. Jon clapped his hands over his ears and sat up.

The Night King seemed like a giant when he was this close. The pale blue of his eyes filled Jon with such primal fear, such sheer _wrongness_ , he felt as if he might wet his smallclothes like a greenboy. The cold radiating off him froze the slush around them into solid ice, seemed to freeze the very breath in Jon's lungs. He could have sworn he saw the Night King smile. And if he hadn't been soaked to the skin, Jon was certain now he _would_ have felt fear-piss running down his leg. There was a split-second to hear the rumble and catch the building heat before Rhaegal opened his maw and unleashed a firestorm so hot Jon had to roll over into a patch of slush to avoid being cooked.

He knew it was not the end, for he could still hear fighting and dying all around him. The Night King was not vanquished. When he raised his head, his enemy had not moved, but had his hands raised against the stream of fire. The terrible soul of winter the Children of the Forest had set within him was keeping it at bay. Neither had the upper hand.

 _Ice and fire_ , a voice from deep inside Jon spoke. _Now is the moment._

He swung around wildly for his sword and ― _there_. Lying in the water beneath Rhaegal's glowing orange belly, was his white wolf pommel. Jon scrambled, crawling to reach for it, sweating from Rhaegal's heat despite the freezing ground. He dragged himself to his feet with barely enough strength to stand.

He gripped Longclaw tight in his fist. And when he raised it, the blade ignited.

The look of fear and anger on the Night King's face was the grandest sight Jon thought he would ever see, unless he was lucky enough to witness the dawn break tomorrow.

“Come on!” He shouted, brandishing his flaming sword and rushing the Night King. He could not fend off Jon and Rhaegal both. It was likely Jon was about to be burned to a crisp, running as he was straight for where Rhaegal's flames pushed at the Night King's chest. But Jon reckoned it would be a quick death, and if the Night King perished with him, he would gladly let Rhaegal roast him alive.

Rhaegal, it seemed, had other ideas.

One moment, Jon could feel the heat blistering his face, his eyes boring into the Night King's, as the Night King lowered a shaking hand that dripped like an icicle from the column of flame to take up his glimmering icy blade.

The next, Rhaegal had launched himself into the air, and Longclaw was buried straight through the Night King's chest and out his back.

Jon could not believe it.

Perhaps he was dreaming.

But then an awful wailing erupted from the Night King, and the White Walkers, and the hundreds of wights still standing, and it was not something any human could dream up. The dead dropped like stones. White Walkers shattered like glass. All around, the survivors lowered their weapons, looking about at the ice and bones and corpses lifeless around them. They began to cheer.

The Night King pierced Jon with a look that made Jon feel as if he was the one who had just been run through. He drew back his fist lightning fast and slammed it into Jon's chest.

Jon went flying halfway across the battlefield and skidded when he landed.

He could hear shouting, although it all sounded very far away. It sounded like, _The King! Look to the King! To the King!_ But it seemed like it came from many miles off, perhaps under water. His head felt heavy. His chest hurt. It hurt a lot. He felt as though he had been punctured with a dozen more knives than the last time, a hundred more.

Jon struggled to his feet, stumbling and coughing. He had to make sure….

Away in the distance, the Night King was motionless on the ground. He had not broken into pieces like his minions but lay dead like any other man. Longclaw was smoking in his chest.

Jon wanted to laugh, to leap for joy. But he was finding it hard to even draw breath. The ground swam beneath his feet. He squinted. _Rubies_. There were rubies littered in the snow before him. Where had they come from?

He could just make out blurry people heading right for him, crowding him. For a moment he was fearful of enemies, but then he recognised them as friends. Grey Worm was at the front, sprinting at full pelt, his spear and shield thrown down and his helmet missing. His bannermen, the Northerners, were running too. All of them looked horrified. _What do you fear?_ He wanted to ask. _The threat is done. The dawn is coming._

His mouth tasted strange. Hot and sour and metallic. His chest felt funny too. He touched it, and his armour was caved in, ruined, and his glove came away wet and shining.

Oh. _Not rubies_ , he thought. _Just blood._

Jon sank to his knees in the snow.

He tipped sideways and landed on his back. It hurt. He closed his eyes against the pain. Jon could hear someone screaming but he couldn't quite understand the words. Someone hit the ground next to him. Hands touched his face. “Jon? JON! Look at me!”

Jon knew that voice. He had to obey. He opened his eyes.

Lyanna Stark was holding his head in her lap.

“It’s alright Jon, I'm here, I'm right here, stay with me, it'll be alright, just stay here with me.”

Behind her head, where the storm clouds were clearing, he could see the stars winking at him. Two big dark shapes blocked some of them out. Winged shadows wheeling above.

Dany. It was Dany with Drogon and Rhaegal.

Why was she so high up? He did not want his wife to be so far away. Long ago, a husband and wife had died so far away from one another, and an orphan boy with a bastard name had wandered the world his whole life in search of a place to belong.

He was so tired. Maybe when they were back at Winterfell, Old Nan would make him a mug of warmed milk with honey and tell him a story once he got into bed…

“Jon!” Lyanna wept. “Jon, no! Stay awake! Don't go! Don't close your eyes!”  

How could he leave her? How could he leave her and die the way Rhaegar had?

“Mother,” he breathed, and then the darkness reared up and swallowed him whole.

  


_Afterwards_ ―  

 

 _After you died_ ―  

 

_Where did you go?_

 

_What did you see?_

 

 

He was stood atop the Wall as it melted. The great fire Mance Rayder had built was before him, making the air taste like smoke. Three dragons emerged, but they were as small as babes and could not fly. They cried out to him, but he could not hear their voices over the roar of the flames.

There was a great cracking sound ― but it was only Ned Stark, pulling a stag's antler from the shredded belly of a direwolf. “Tough old beast,” he said.

Bran’s voice begged, “Please, Father!” Again and again, he begged, cawing like a raven. "Please, Father! Please, Father! Please, Father!"

At the treeline, Jon could see a pride of lions waiting to feast on the little wolf pups. They had not been there the first time. He went to draw his sword―and his white wolf pommel turned into a dragon’s head, jade green and cackling like a mad man ― and it opened its jaws to snap a mere inch from his hand―

Rickon’s hand was so close to his, if he could only _reach_ ―

The sound of an arrow punching through a ribcage ―

― it was hard to read the sign in the dark but he squinted and saw the word TRAITOR ―  

Ygritte lay lifeless in his arms ―

Ramsay’s face broke beneath his fist ― _bastard, come and see, come and see, bastard_ ―

He saw Stark men proclaiming him King in the North, he saw Stark men at a wedding in the Riverlands, he saw Stark men at a tourney years ago ― they all turned to him, all dead, all rotting corpses with blue eyes―

He clung to the hand of woman who lay on a battlefield of bedsheets. “You’re not going to die,” he told her―

An old knight was dragging a screaming boy with white-gold hair out the door―a storm howled outside ―the sea crashed against the rocks with a sound like a fleet of ships being smashed to pieces ―

“Is it you?” She gasped up at him, eyes filled with tears and love. “Is it really you?”

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone..._

Jon could hear a voice singing, and the harp that played with it was so sad it made him want to weep.

The air of the tower room was filled with sweetness like winter roses ― he leaned in to hear the name she whispered in his ear―

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts...._

“Next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother. I promise.”

I promise. I promise. I promise. I promise. I promise. I promise.

A girl opened her mouth to take a bite out of a horse’s heart ―

_The ones she had lost and the ones she had found..._

He raced through an endless stretch of snow on four legs ― he soared high over a sprawling red desert ―

 

A comet sliced a wound across the sky ―

_... and the ones who had loved her the most..._

He drifted down a river. Beside him was a purple-eyed stranger, struck down dead by the hammer of fate.

 

 

_Nothing._

 

 

_There was nothing at all._

 

 

When he opened his eyes, R’hllor was there. A lovely, kind face, kissed by fire, burning as bright as the sun, drawing out the heat that licked through Jon’s skin, that raged outwards from his heart.

When he blinked again, it was not the Lord of Light bending over him ― it was Sansa.

Her hair fell about her face with the sun shining in behind her through the window. She smiled at him, and he somehow smiled back. “Good afternoon,” she said softly. “You gave us quite the fright.”

“Sansa,” he rasped, and his throat felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. His whole body felt like each part was disconnected from the whole.

“He’s awake again!” She called behind her, and Jon heard someone bustling about.

“I’m coming!”

Another face appeared above him, round and beaming and achingly familiar. Jon reached out a heavy hand to touch a bearded cheek. “Sam.”

Sam had overjoyed tears in his eyes. “I told them. I said― Jon always comes back.”

That struck something in his fuzzy mind. “I didn’t ― did I ― again―?”

Sansa stroked a cool cloth over his face, brushing her fingers through his hair. She had a bittersweet look on her face, like her heart had been broken but now it was healing. “You didn’t die. It was close but you were strong. No need for magic this time. Just Sam’s impressive healing skills and a lot of time to recover.”

“I wouldn’t call them― _impressive_ ―”

“He saved your life,” Sansa told Jon firmly, ringing the cloth out and setting it aside. “Kept you asleep with just the right mix of essence of nightshade and milk of the poppy whilst he treated you and whilst you healed, but not enough to kill you, or make you simple.” She squinted at him. “You’re not simple, are you?”

“Would you be able to tell the difference if I was?” He croaked. Sam giggled nervously.

“You might be able to walk a bit,” Sansa said, and Sam nodded. “You woke a few times, actually, once your fever broke. Never for very long. Enough so we could feed you and bathe you, and Sam knows some exercises for muscles that we did to make sure you didn’t waste away. You spoke a little too.”

“Really?” Jon said, trying to shift up into a seated position. He felt as weak as a newborn foal but managed to push himself up on shaking arms. His chest was a swathe of bandages. He couldn’t quite remember why he needed them.

Sansa nodded, moving off the bed so he could stand up. “Nothing that made much sense. You mostly called out for your mother and father.”

“I think I―” Jon shook his head, slowly, for it was swimming a bit still. He thought perhaps he had dreamt of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and maybe Ned too, and stranger things besides. But he couldn’t remember that either. “Help me up?”

Sam rushed forward, holding out his hands for Jon to hold onto whilst he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Jon wrapped both arms around Sam’s neck and Sam hoisted him to his feet, which nearly gave out when he tried to stand. But Sam held him strong.

The minute he was up, Jon realised he was completely naked, and Sansa was stood right in front of him.

“Gods be good,” He blanched, trying to move his hands to cover his modesty.

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Oh, please. I’ve seen worse. Like how your chest looked when Daenerys flew you back to the castle.”

Suddenly, everything came back to him in a great wave and his knees went to water. Sam had to help him sit back down on the bed, and wrapped a fur around him.

“Dany,” He gasped. “Dany― where ― the Night King ― what―”

“Breathe, Jon,” Sam murmured, grasping his hand and guiding him through some deep breaths, which pulled at something under the bandages and made his body feel both soothed and even more sore. “It’s over. The dead are gone. You killed the Night King with Longclaw.”

“The soldiers said your sword was on fire,” Sansa added. “They said it proved you were a true Targaryen.”

“Where’s Daenerys?” Jon asked again. “It’s so― the castle is so quiet. Where’s anyone?”

Sansa and Sam exchanged a look. “I’ll get a servant to bring you some food,” Sam said, squeezing Jon’s hand and leaving. When he opened the door, Jon heard Sam say sternly, “No, Ghost, _stay_ , he’s not ready― _Ghost_!”

The wolf came bounding in, and Jon had never been happier to see anyone in his life. Ghost jumped up at Jon, setting his big soft paws on Jon’s shoulders so they were face to face, and he started slathering Jon’s face with wet kisses.

“Ghost, stop it. Down,” Sansa scolded, but Jon was laughing wheezily. He wrapped his arms around Ghost and buried his face in his fur. He could feel Ghost’s tail thumping against his leg where it was wagging happily. Ghost started to wriggle after a moment or two, so Jon let him go, and looked to Sansa.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Let me help you dress, or you’ll get cold.” She went to his closet and got his clothes out. It made him uneasy to see her acting like his maid, or his mother.

“You don’t have to―”

“Don’t be such a man,” She snapped as she tossed his smallclothes onto the bed. “I’ll let you put those on yourself, shall I?”

She allowed him the dignity of going alone to the privy for what felt like the longest piss of his life, and politely averted her gaze as he wrestled with his underthings once he hobbled back into the room.

“Sansa. Is Daenerys… she’s alive?”

“Of course she’s alive. And Arya too. She was in bits over you. We all were.” She passed his tunic over his head. It was snug over all his bandages, but hearing this made his chest feel a little less like an entire castle had been dropped on it.

“You said I took a lot of time to recover. How long? Where is everyone?”

Sansa knelt to help him into his breeches and socks and boots, which he would have preferred her not to do, but she was insistent. She sighed, which made him assume he was not going to enjoy whatever she was about to tell him. “You’ve been asleep nearly two moons. We just got a raven from Tyrion. The siege of King’s Landing begins tomorrow.”

“Two― the siege of―?” The shock made him stumble again but Sansa caught him in a strong grip. “ _What―_?”

Getting his leathers on was hugely unpleasant, but Sansa helped him with that too. She even brushed his hair and tied it back. “Daenerys’ armies marched first, of course,” she told him as she worked. “The remaining North, although the women and children have returned home. The knights of the Vale. They were joined by my uncle Edmure’s forces when they passed Riverrun.” Sansa scowled when she added, “Even Arya went with them. Wants to complete that list of hers. It’s just been me, Sam, Bran and the servants here, really. I’ll spare you the gruesome details of the daily runnings of an empty keep, and how Sam healed you, which is almost as bad.”

A girl came in with a bowl of thin soup, some soft bread, and a mug of water. Jon didn’t want any of it, but Sansa made him eat.

“They all marched South…” Jon said, full after a few bites but struggling through at the look Sansa gave him. He handed the dregs to her. He broke the bread he couldn’t eat in half, gave some to Sansa and tossed the rest to Ghost. “Without me.”

“Without you?” Sansa repeated, sipping the last of the soup. “We didn’t know if you’d live, Jon. Well―” She shrugged. “I knew, and Sam, and Arya.”

“Daenerys…” He said, the word which just kept swirling round his head, ringing in his heart.

Sansa chewed on her piece of bread for a moment. “I’m sure she was very sorry, but she couldn’t wait for you. She has to take the Throne. That’s why she came here in the first place.”

Jon noticed a vial of milk of the poppy on his bedside, so he grabbed it and took a long pull. He then downed his mug of water to wash out the taste, which made him feel a bit sick, even though he was parched.

He did not feel good, not good at all. He should stay at home in Winterfell to get stronger. But what kind of a man was he, if he stayed, whilst his Northern brothers fought for a Southron throne? What kind of a king?

_A Targaryen alone in the world... is a terrible thing…_

What kind of a husband?

“I have to go. Don’t try and stop me.”

Sansa scoffed, folding her arms. “And just how would I go about stopping you? Sam and I knew you’d leave the minute we told you.” She crossed the room and retrieved something from by the door. She held it out the him. It was Longclaw. The pommel was blackened, but when he took hold of it and drew it a few inches clear of the scabbard, the blade shone like it was fresh forged.

When he was done strapping it around his waist, Sansa fastened his cloak around his shoulders and helped him down what he now considered to be far too many corridors and stairs just to get to the courtyard.

He shared a goodbye with Sam, who he sincerely did not wish to leave behind and to whom he would be forever indebted. Sam had made up some excuse about having to check on his son, before he had hurried back into the castle in tears.

When it was just the two of them again, Sansa enveloped him in a hug. He held her for a moment, resting his face against her soft hair. “I never gave up on you, not really,” she whispered.

“I know,” Jon breathed. “Thank you.”

She pulled back, and dipped in a little curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Enough of that,” he laughed. “Lady Stark.”

Sansa arched a delicate eyebrow. “I’m happy with my title. You should learn to be happy with yours.”

Jon hugged her again. She clung to him like she was suddenly afraid to part with him. "Don't forget the North, Jon. It won't forget you." 

"I won't forget," He promised her, then drew back to kiss her cheek. “We’ll see each other again.”

Sansa was smiling like she thought Jon had missed something monumental, which in fairness, he probably had. “Jon. They took all the horses.”

“I’ll get one in Wintertown.”

“They took the ones from Wintertown too.”

Jon threw his arms up as he made his way to the gates. He shouted over his shoulder, “I suppose I’ll be walking to King’s Landing, then?”

“Not quite,” Sansa called back. Jon stopped, and turned to look at her. She was still smirking. “We aren’t the only ones who waited here for you to wake up.”

The stable-boys were opening up the gates, laughing like they were in on it too.

Beyond the castle walls, Jon heard the roar of a dragon.  


	6. When The Sun Rises In The West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skipping right past the war for the iron throne just to get to the happy ending? in _my_ jonerys fic? it's more likely than you think! 
> 
> if game of thrones did domestic fluff, this would be it. david and dan can Suck My Dick.

Jon felt Daenerys slide her arm through the crook of his elbow. She gave him a little squeeze as she fit her body up against his.

“You should be in bed,” he murmured. “It's got to be well past midnight.”

“Mmm,” Dany hummed, “I don’t want to sleep.”

“Gods be good. I could sleep until next winter.”

Dany leant against his shoulder. He kissed the crown of her head – her hair fell loose and lank down her back, but it smelled sweet with lavender. Missandei must have run some oil through it whilst his wife lay in one of her scalding baths. Dany’s skin smelled clean and hot, like fresh water. She _looked_ tired though. Her skin was lily-white and the dark shadows under her eyes made her face look sunken. Her lips were chapped, and her eyes and nose were still a little red and raw. She held herself like every part of her was aching, inside and out.

The past nine months had not been kind to Daenerys, but when she gazed into the crib Jon was standing over, the serene look in her eyes made it seem like all her dreams had come true.

       

Two nights ago ― Gods, was it only that? It felt like a lifetime ― Dany had woken him with sharp nails digging into his arm, shaking him.

“Aegon,” she had gasped, and he was awake in an instant.

She’d been tossing and turning all night, for many nights, grumbling to herself about a babe with the legs of a direwolf, made for running even whilst it was in her womb. Her back had ached, along with her head and neck and ankles. She’d disclosed to him, whilst squatting over her chamber pot one night, scowling and holding his hands for balance, that her bladder felt as though her entire Dothraki horde had trampled it. They’d both been afraid at the start, remembering that bed of blood on the morning of their wedding. As Daenerys’ stomach grew, so did her resolve that the babe would live, but Jon’s fretting had only grown over the state of her. It seemed she wilted with each passing day as her time drew near.

 _I’m small, that’s all,_ she’d reassured him, running their entwined hands over her slim hips and the contrasting great swell of her belly, _but a little dragon is a dragon nonetheless._

But when she’d woken him in the middle of the night, Dany’s eyes had been wide and wild with fear. “The baby’s coming,” She breathed, her face contorting. He’d thrown back the covers to see the bed soaked around her. He took in the sight of his wife, small and scared, with the first signs of the toil to come wet on her thighs. Her eyes were wet too. She had called him Aegon. She only called him that when she needed him to be strong. This was a battle, aye. It could not be fought with blades and arrows and dragonglass, but they would triumph all the same.

Jon took her face in his hands and kissed her trembling mouth. “Listen to me, Dany. I’m going to wake Sam and Missandei and Irem. In a few hours, we will have our child.”

She’d nodded, and he’d kissed her again, and ran out the door.

But it had not been only a few hours.

Sam had given him apologetic looks over the midwife’s shoulder as she told him that, king or not, the birthing bed was no place for a man.

“Sam’s a man!” he’d squawked.

Irem, the Dothraki midwife who adored Dany enough that she’d agreed to learn the Common Tongue, and really didn’t seem to care about Jon either way, had fixed him with an unimpressed look. She reminded him, inexplicably, a little of Catelyn Stark. “You are Grand Maester? No. Samwell is Grand Maester.” And she’d shut the door in his face.

Jon would rather have gone a thousand more rounds with the Night King, or perhaps flown Rhaegal from Winterfell to King's Landing again, than dealt with the options that had been left to him― which consisted of pacing around, sitting with his head in his hands, and fending off Tyrion’s repeated attempts to ply him with wine.

Daenerys had laboured for over two days. When the sun had risen on the third day, Jon was certain she was going to die.

He was sat by the door outside the royal chambers. Tyrion had stood beside him, clutching his shoulder so tight it hurt. Inside, Dany was sobbing, the way she had been for almost a full night now. It seemed she was too spent for screaming. At one point, in her agony and delirium, she had begged for Jorah. Jon hadn't known if anyone in the room had had the heart to remind her that her dear old bear fell in the fight for her throne.

The three other voices in the room were Sam, soft and gentle, Irem, low and soothing, and Missandei, high and sweet. They had taken to singing to her, for there was precious little else to do. They had buckets of steaming water brought in by servants, towels and rags and milk of the poppy for pain and some strong-smelling elixir to keep Dany from becoming too drowsy. There were only so many things they could do against that which did not want to come forth into the world.

Jon had longed for his sisters, far away in Winterfell. And he had found himself wishing his old advisor was there too. Wishing Davos had not died protecting Missandei from a wight that was nought more than a skeleton swinging a blade, wishing he had not had to hear about how Missandei had to cut him down a second time when the Night King forced the dead to their feet as quick as they fell, wishing he had not had to send Davos’ remains back to his wife.

He'd had his head hanging between his knees, eyes drooping shut. His chest, which now wheezed like bellows when he woke in the morning and before he slept at night, and was a mess of scar tissue despite Sam’s good work, had started to ache. Tyrion had slid down the wall next to him, his grip changing from Jon’s shoulder to his knee, like he required anchoring. “What do I do?” He’d croaked. Tyrion had squeezed his knee, hushing him.

There had been a sudden commotion behind the door, hurried frantic voices and a long, drawn-out wail.

Jon had shot up to his feet, his heart in his mouth.

“Jon,” Tyrion said, grabbing his wrist. “Stay.”

Jon had ripped his arm away with ease, glowering down at Tyrion. But Tyrion was not a man to be intimidated but another’s height.

“I can’t just sit here,” Jon snarled. “I can’t just ― I won’t be― fucking useless―when she’s―”

“I _know_ ,” Tyrion had said, in a voice full of fresh pain. “I know what you fear.” Tyrion’s mouth was set in a firm line, and his eyes were glossy, and Jon had remembered that he and Daenerys were not the only two among them who had lost their mother to the birthing bed.

Dany’s screams had been getting louder and louder, as were Irem’s instructions, or what Jon had assumed were instructions, for she’d switched to Dothraki. There was crying and groaning, and Jon had no idea what Sam and Missandei were saying over the din through the wood of the door. Tyrion did not try to offer Jon words of comfort, for there were none. But he had picked up the full wine glass he’d poured for Jon over a day ago, and lifted it up to him. Jon had sipped it, and grimaced.

“I hate Dornish red.”

“That’s because you’re a bastard with no taste,” Tyrion had grumbled, taking the wine from him and tossing it down one gulp.

“I’m your king,” Jon had rebutted weakly.

“King consort, and a bastard with no taste.”

Jon’s face had crumpled. “I’m afraid,” he admitted.

Tyrion grabbed the wine jug off the floor and took a pull straight off. “As am I.” He had offered Jon the jug, and Jon drank deeply of it until it was all gone, even though it was too tart for him, and he’d felt like he was breaking apart and the wine would come spilling out all the cracks.

Suddenly, everything in the room had gone rather quiet.

The jug had fallen from Jon’s numb fingers, clattered onto the floor and rolled away.

“Oh, gods…” Tyrion had moaned.

Then Sam burst out the door. He was sweating and pale, and his hands were covered in blood. Jon had all but collapsed against the wall at the sight of him. Tyrion rushed to hold him up and Jon sagged against him. He had known Tyrion and Sam were talking but he hadn’t been able to understand what they were saying.

 _She’s gone._ _I’ve lost mother and child both._

“Jon?” Sam’s voice was so soft, so kind. “Jon, look at me. Listen to me.” Jon shook his head. He couldn’t stand it. “Jon, she’s alive. She’s fine.”

“Alive…?” He repeated blankly. “Dany…?”

“Yes!” Sam had exclaimed, nodding and grinning. “I didn’t mean to scare you! She’s ― well, she’s lost some blood and she’s exhausted, it was all rather drawn out, you know, you probably heard ―”

“For fuck’s sake, Tarly!” Tyrion had spat out, “The child! What of the child?”

If possible, Sam’s grin got even bigger. Hope lit up like a flame inside Jon’s chest, growing steadily like an inferno. “The babe lives too…?” He'd asked.

Sam had hooked his hands under Jon’s armpits like a child and propped him up on his feet, then hugged him.

“ _Sam_ ,” Jon had said, feeling close to hysteria.

“Jon,” Sam had pulled back. “Your Grace. It is my honour to announce that the realm has a prince, and two princesses.”

Jon had just stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Triplets! They were all sort of ― it’s hard to explain, tangled up together― and she had to, well, her body ― you understand it’s hard for a woman’s body to prepare to deliver three babes―  but it was as if none of them could decide which wanted to arrive first, then they all sort of―” Sam had made a grand gesture. “― shot out!” He had laughed, and quipped, “Your poor wife!” He then seemed to remember that whilst Jon was his best friend, he had been talking about the queen, and he composed himself, pulling his mouth into a serious moue.

But then Tyrion had started to chuckle, until it had grown into a belly laugh. He had grabbed Jon’s hands and squeezed them. There had been tears in his eyes. “ _Three_!” He’d hooted, shaking his head. “Three babes! The children of Stark and Targaryen, of course they were stubborn! And highly unlikely!” He’d grinned up at Jon, who was still trying to comprehend what he’d been told. He’d thought he’d lost them all but…

A prince and two princesses…A son and two daughters…all living and healthy…

“Can I…?” He’d started, with tears rising in his throat, and he’d taken a step toward the door. “Sam, can I go…?”

“Oh! Yes, yes! Come on, come in!” Sam had enthused, beaming and ushering Jon through the door.

One moment, in the corridor, Jon had been one person, but then in that room, in the new world he had been thrust into, he had become another. Or perhaps… all the parts of him he had been unable to reconcile had suddenly slotted into place.

The air had been hot from the fire and damp and stank of potions and birth. Missandei was knelt scrubbing her hands in a basin, red up to her elbows. Irem had been ducked down between Daenerys’ legs with what seemed to be a ream of silk thread and a needle― the implication of what she must have been doing had made Jon feel a bit weak, for all that he had done absolutely sweet fucking nothing for the past three days. He had felt Sam's hand on his back, pushing him forward toward the bed.

And in the bed ― Dany, slicked with sweat and blood like she had just come off a battlefield, but _alive,_ so gloriously alive. There were three squirming, swaddled bundles in her arms. When she had seen him, her mouth had broken open into a smile, wide and bright and shining.

Summer could have arrived then and there, and Jon would not have noticed.

 

 

“What are their names?” Daenerys whispered now.

“You want me to decide?” He asked, surprised. She was the one who had longed for motherhood, though Jon could admit he had wept a little when she’d told him she was with child― or children, he supposed. He would have thought she’d want to decide, or at least had ideas.

Dany nuzzled her face against his shoulder a little, huffing out a little laugh. “I’ve done the hard part. You can have the easy job.”

“I…”

He looked down at his three sleeping babes, and the revelation of their existence washed over him all again.

 _The three heads of the dragon,_ he thought. _Just like Rhaegar wanted._

Dany reached down to stroke the peach-fuzzy cheek of their son. “The boy first, then. What do you think for him?”

What would Jon name a son? He’d barely thought on it, so sure for most of his life he would never have a child, and then so anxious for Dany’s life and the life that grew inside her…

His first thought was Eddard― but would that be a name Daenerys would like? Jon had loved Ned, of course, and missed him sorely, but to Dany, he was one of the usurpers who had ensured the fall of her family. It was the same with Robb, a name he might also have chosen, for his brother had been named after Robert Baratheon. No, neither of those would do. Jon would leave those names for Sansa if she ever married, or Arya and Gendry, if they had any sons of their own.

The boy had some feathery strands of translucent hair and indigo eyes. It was the Valyrian look, so he needed a name to match. But what noble Targaryen men were left for him to be named for? _There have been too many Aegons_ , Jon thought wryly. And he couldn’t very well be an Aerys or a Viserys. Jon hadn’t read enough as a child about the rest of his father’s family to know the names of all the kings.

But then memories came to him at once in his mind, rushing like a waterfall of inspiration…

First, it was but a flash ― himself, half a lifetime ago, running the halls of Winterfell with a wooden sword in his hand and Robb at his heels, calling out, _I’m Prince Aemon the Dragonknight!_

Next, that old maester, whose hair and eyes, sightless though they were, were just like Jon’s son's. A smile, a touch on his cheek. A frail voice. It said, _“We took you for a man of the Night's Watch.”_ It told him, _“Kill the boy, and let the_ _man be born.”_ It asked him, _“What is honour compared to a woman’s love? Or the feel of a newborn son in your arms?”_

The last memory was a few moons after the war.

Sam had come to Jon with stacks of crumpled papers. He’d told Jon they were from Maester Aemon’s personal things, which he’d been tasked with clearing out once the old man had died. “I kept them and took them to the Citadel, because a lot of them had speculation about the Long Night.”

Jon had frowned, “We don’t need writings on The Long Night now it’s over.”

But Sam had held them out. “They aren’t just any writings. They’re letters Aemon received. From Rhaegar.” Jon had gone totally still. “And once the truth came out, well.” Sam had smiled a little nervously. “I thought you might like to read them one day.”

Jon had wanted to rebuff him, to tell him he had no use for a dead man’s letters. But here he was ― in the chambers he and Dany slept in, which had once belonged to Rhaegar, and when he had to sit in the throne room tending to the smallfolk, he wore Rhaegar's crown. So he held his hand out for them. They had both ignored the way the hand had a little tremor to it. Sam had sat with Jon whilst he read each of them aloud. At first, Jon could only stare at the start and end of the letters, the _Dear Uncle_ and the _Your great-nephew, Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone_. Rhaegar had fine penmanship, and he did not write like the seed of a madman, but he didn't exactly write like a sane man either. Sam had spoken true, for the letters were mostly consumed with questions and fears about a terrible fate that slept beyond the Wall and the role the prince was convinced he played in stopping it.

But sometimes, there would be a line heavy with foretelling such as _I worry for my Father, he grows more unwell each day_ , or something utterly benign like _Oswell tripped over the cat again yesterday and nearly broke his neck, it made me laugh harder than I have in moons,_ and it made Jon’s heart clench.

He made almost no mention of his wife and their children, until one of the last dated letters. _Baby Aegon is loud for such a small fellow, and I’ve no doubt he’ll have a good voice for songs when he’s grown. Of course there is only one song that matters. Pycelle told us the birthing was too hard and there will be no more children. My poor Elia is heartbroken. But I am a terrible husband and father both, for even now, my thoughts turn North._

Jon hadn't read that bit to Sam. _My thoughts turn North._ Had Rhaegar still been speaking of the White Walkers? Or was he thinking of his queen of love and beauty?

But it was one of Rhaegar’s sign offs in a random letter that Jon had kept returning to. Rhaegar had written of a place called Summerhall and every stroke of his quill seemed steeped in a heavy melancholy. It had read, _I know you have your vows, and your brothers in black are your sworn family. But you will always be a Targaryen, and will always have a place in our family, and in my heart._

 

Dany was watching him, smiling in anticipation, her eyes crinkling at the edges ― he realised he’d been quiet, lost in these thoughts, for some time.

“Aemon,” Jon said simply.

Dany seemed pleased, if a little bemused. “Why Aemon?”

“The maester at Castle Black was our uncle Aemon. It was thanks to him I became Lord Commander. He taught me a lot. And he spoke of you, sometimes, when news of you came from Essos. How he wished he could help you.”

Daenerys beamed. “Aemon it is. And the girls?”

The girls’ names came far easier to Jon. They took almost no thought at all.  

He gently touched the head of one of their girls, careful not to wake her. She too had lovely mauve eyes like her mother, wreathed in dark lashes. “Rhaella, for your mother?” Jon suggested, and Dany nodded, her eyes suddenly filled with unshed tears.

“And this one?” She asked.

Their last girl already had a few wispy dark curls. Unlike her siblings, her eyes were slate grey as rain clouds. _This one is stormborn, like our Khaleesi,_ Irem had said. But Jon had taken one look at her and known her for a Stark, and there was only one name he could give her. 

“She's ―” But a lump rose in his throat and the word got stuck. “I'd like to name her after my mother.”

A silver tear tracked down Dany's face, but Jon reached forward and wiped it away. “No more tears, love,” he murmured.

“I'm happy,” She said, quiet too, like if they spoke too loudly some spell would be broken. “I'm so ― I never thought I'd have ― not ever―”

“Me neither. But we're all here.”

Dany let out a tremulous breath, dabbing at her eyes. She gave him a watery little smile. “I think I can sleep now.” But she did not seem to want to move, gazing down at the little ones, transfixed. Jon wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her flush against him.

“One more thing, before you do,” he murmured, his lips against her temple.

“Mm, what is it?”

“Don't make them marry each other, eh?”

This made her actually laugh aloud, a rare thing for Daenerys to do, and it was like golden light pouring right out of the sun and filling up Jon's chest. “No,” She agreed, winding her arms around his neck and smiling fully now. “I think you and I will be the last Targaryens, in that regard, Jon Snow.”

“Aye,” He agreed, and smiled back at her. “I think we will.”

She kissed him and he breathed her in like air. He wanted to say something sweet to her, some big truth― like how if he lived a thousand more lives, he would adore her in every single one of them. But, as he had told Sam Tarly all those years ago, he was no one’s poet. And besides, what could he tell of his heart that she did not know already?

He settled on, “I love you.”

“As I love you. Will you come to bed?”

“I'll stay awake a little longer. Just to keep an eye on the babes.”

“Wake me if they need feeding.”

“I'm sure they'll wake you themselves if they do.”

That too made Dany laugh. She unfurled herself from him slowly and drifted back into their room. Her warmth stayed with him even when she had tucked herself into bed. Jon retrieved a stool that lived under his desk and sat by the crib. He drank in the sight of his babes and decided he would never get tired of looking at them. When the sun rose a few hours later, light filtered in through the drapes, buttery and bright. A hint of warm breeze brought in the smell of melting snow mingled with sea salt. It smelled like a dream of spring.

Somewhere in the distance, Jon heard Drogon calling out to the sky.

At the sound, one of the babes awoke, scrunching up her little face and kicking her feet. Jon shushed her. A chubby fist flailed out and grabbed tight onto his finger. She blinked at him. Her eyes matched his own, and Arya's, and Ned Stark's.

“Look at you,” He whispered down to her. “A proper wolf, aren’t you, little love?”

High up on Visenya's Hill, Rhaegal roared in answer to his brother.

And in the crib, Lyanna Targaryen smiled up at her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-season 8 edit: so i've retagged this as "fix-it" for, i think, obvious reasons. i'm incredibly saddened and angry by this final season. D&D really played us all, huh? i hope anyone who was as disappointed as me found a bit of solace in this little fic. peace xo


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